


The Scenic Route

by Gearsmoke



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Asexuality Spectrum, Bodily Fluids, Body Modification, Drugs, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frotting, Light Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Metaphysical Sex, Mistakes were made, Oral Sex, Sexual exploration, Surprises, Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), Talking, Tickling, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trancing, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, light painplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-12-17 05:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke/pseuds/Gearsmoke
Summary: *** This Fic is Under Renovation ***An interlude between The Last Green Days of Eden and a sequel story in the works, Aziraphale wants to share everything with Crowley, including the carnal pleasures.  He has a lot to teach Crowley about how human bodies work, and how much he's been missing out on by denying his.  However this does not go as smoothly as they might have hoped. Crowley has a lot of issues around sexuality and affection, and Aziraphale tries to help him find a way to return order to his life, through a long journey of psychological vulnerability, learning to be honest, renewal, forgiveness, and a lot of sex.Warning: Super slow build.  A lot of talking and trust-building.  A lot of sharp turns, this is a wild mouse of a fic.Another warning: Things do get a bit weird while they're figuring each other out.  I won't spoil that, but don't expect this to be an even grade.Things don't really get lemony until chapter 3, so if you're looking for that... there it is.





	1. Chapter 1

-.*.-

1

Spring had gifted the little treed circle in which two human-shaped beings were sitting with flowers and green buds. It was hardly a garden, little more than a patch of tended soil and paths around a stone monument. But it had been consecrated to Buddha by the Dalai Lama, so it was as neutral as anywhere. Being there lent both a sense of calm and vulnerability, and not only to supernatural creatures who temporarily ceded their power to cross its threshold.

For Crowley, there was also safety here. He was seated on a bench in the sunshine, with fresh green all around, the lawn beyond the circle twinkling with tiny white daisies. His hand slid to the side, fingers finding and interlacing with Aziraphale's, and the angel next to him smiled.

“It is lovely,” the blond mused, “Smaller than I expected.” Followed by a side-eye when Crowley made an amused little sound. “What?”  
  
“No, nothing.” Crowley glanced around, it was right about the middle of a Tuesday, and they had the circle nearly to themselves. With a smidgin of will, he summoned a vague sense of unease in a wide ring around them to keep the humans away.

“We could have just had this conversation in your apartment.”

Crowley worried a long tooth over his lip and shrugged, “No, we couldn't. Maybe you could, but, I need, you know,” An even footing? An equal start? To be in this place where neither of them held territory. To feel like the world isn't in a tilt-a-whirl careening toward oblivion long enough to put the words together. “I needed to get out.”

“It's a nice spot.” Nice enough, the angel supposed, for being in the middle of the city, with the constant traffic and tight-packed loom of buildings all around it. It must be pleasant, comparatively speaking, for those people who stayed in London most of their lives. “We could go out of the city, have a picnic in a proper meditation garden, somewhere far away from all this.”

“Hm. Yeah, that sounds good.” A moment's pause, “But I _want_ to talk here.”

“Of course.”

There was a longer lull, Crowley stared up at one of the obelisks around the circle, as if studying it while he collected his thoughts. When the demon was ready, he said, “Tell me what you want to do to me.”  
  
“Oh,” Not that anyone was listening, but it still inspired a flush of warmth to the cheeks. Aziraphale squeezed the fingers twined with his, and leaned closer, “Are you asking me to talk naughty to you in a public park, darling?”  
  
Crowley laughed, a short bark of amusement, “Not exactly.” He dipped his head so Aziraphale could see a sliver of his eye over the rim of his glasses, “I want to know what you were thinking of doing to me, I want to know why you want to do it. And I want to _get_ whatever it is that makes it important to you.”

The angel looked down at his knees, at ants forging a trail in front of his oxfords. “I don't want you to think you need to do anything to make me happy, Crowley. I don't want you to let me do anything you don't want me to, either.” He lowered his tone, trying to sound both stern and gentle, “You've always put me first, and I've allowed it far too often. Please, don't let me hurt you. Don't say yes to me unless you mean it.”

“You underestimate my taste for pain, love.” The demon teased, chuckling, “I might want to, and I won't know until you tell me. Isn't that fair?”  
  
Aziraphale nodded, “So I'm to take it that I'll be the guiding hand in this, er, adventure?”

“I'm hardly fit to take the wheel. B'sides, you've always been my guide in one way or another.”

The angel felt himself go giddy. “My goodness, that is a lot of responsibility. Thank you for trusting me, I will do my absolute best.”

Crowley turned and pressed his temple into the angel's padded shoulder, “I know you will. Go on, then.”

Despite having thought about all the many things he'd like to share with Crowley, a concrete plan failed to come to mind, and Aziraphale dithered, “Well, I, well... I suppose...”

The demon elevated an eyebrow expectantly, though still leaning into Aziraphale.

“Well I suppose we'd start with the easiest things. Touching, like we already do, but with the right um, physical features installed.” Oh, why is it difficult to talk about something that's so easy to imagine?  
  
Crowley nodded, “Genitalia. Check.”

“No, well, yes, but not only that. Our bodies have erogenous spots all over, they just aren't connected properly when we get them. But one doesn't spend nearly all of history around humans without figuring things out.”

“You figured it out pretty quickly in Eden.” Crowley mused.  
  
Aziraphale's already pink face tipped towards red. “Oh, yes, I suppose so. I had to learn it all over again.”  
  
“I don't think I have. So step one, then. Finding my spots.” Crowley chuckled, “Yes, I'd like to do that. What's next?”

The angel shivered, not from cold, but from the eagerness of his mortal body as he thought about that question. “I'd want to use my mouth, on all the places my hands had been. On all the spots we find, and bring them to life. I want to lick and suck and bite,” The words made easier by the migration of blood away from the brain.  
  
“Bite.” It came out lower than he expected. Crowley hadn't manifested anything to be aroused with, and yet – he must have overlooked something more basic than the contents of his pants.

“If you like. I'd be careful. A little nibble.” Was it getting warmer? He turned toward Crowley, leaning in close, nearly whispering, “And _then_ we would get to the genitalia. I would go slow, let you savor it, and bring you to climax in my mouth.”

“Is it getting warmer?” Crowley smirked, “I thought you weren't going to talk dirty to me in public, angel.”

Aziraphale's breath ghosted over the side of Crowley's neck, riffling through fine red hair and earning a twitch, “Oh I'm not. I could. Do you like the itinerary so far?”

“Mmn.” Replied Crowley, “I don't know. Everything up to that last bit sounds fine. Could we just do the other things and worry about that last part after?”  
  
“Oh, yes. That would be lovely. Do you want to stop talking about it?”

Crowley nodded. He was curious, certainly, but knew well that reading too far ahead would make it harder to move forward.

“Do you want to go somewhere else or just sit here?”

Nuzzling into the collar of Aziraphale's jacket, Crowley mumbled against the fabric, “Just stay here a lil', n' then we can go to yours, okay?” He was warm and content, the little urban garden smelled pleasant, and if he concentrated the sounds of the city went away and he could imagine they were somewhere else. As much as he loved London – the cars. the smog, the centuries of grime and perseverance leached into the brickwork – he also often yearned for solitude and quiet, for sun-dappled green spaces far from human touch, known only to the two of them.

Aziraphale watched people outside their little bubble of 'go away', how they'd subconsciously redirect themselves elsewhere if they wandered into it. Young women with strollers, elderly folk walking their tiny dogs. Cars going by on the other side of the wrought iron gate, their glossy carapaces winking sunshine as they passed. It was a small garden, yes, but he could see why Crowley liked it, it felt like a place between worlds.

They rested in easy silence for a while, until the children began to invade. Freshly released from the captivity of their schools, they descended on the park like uniformed locusts. Their screams and laughter, endearing when it was only a few kids in the distance and not several hundred and _everywhere_, finally prompted Crowley to tug at the other's hand and urge them to go.

It took an hour to walk back to Soho, in part because Aziraphale liked to take his time along flower-lined back roads instead of the noisy streets that would get them there faster. And there were also shops to be peeked into, and birds to be fed, but there was no rush, they would arrive when they arrived, at the bookshop and all things after.

-.*.-

“A glass of wine?”

Crowley took his glasses off and tucked them in his jacket pocket, before tossing the garment over the back of the settee, “Absolutely. And then the rest of the bottle.”

“You aren't nervous, are you?” Placing two glasses on the small table between them, Aziraphale opened a Chilean Carménère and poured both.

Crowley made a dismissive noise and gesture, but then said, “I suppose. Shouldn't I be?”

Lifting a glass and sipping from it, the blond hummed briefly. “This needs to air.” And then, after putting his drink back down, “So am I.”

“Fair.” But just thinking about wine had a calming effect – purely psychosomatic, but enough to ease Crowley toward speaking freely. “I never thought we'd get this far, you know. I told myself I'd be happy just being able to keep you around at all. Watch over you, know you were happy somewhere. Tried to make it dry and practical.”

Aziraphale relaxed into his chair, one knee over the other. “I appreciated it.” They'd already been through whose fault this or that was, and who should apologize and who should forgive. Arguing that there was nothing to be forgiven for, and then conceding that there was, and granting it. Over and over, they'd been through that. Now what was left to achieve was acceptance. “I had hoped we'd get here before the world ended. You could say we made it on a technicality.”

Crowley laughed, “Well-l, we couldn't let it end while we had unfinished business. That's on us.”

The wine oxidized into fall fruits and caramel, and the bottle emptied. Savoring the last sips, the topic had wandered to sunnier climes, “And honestly, sometimes there's just nothing you can do for them. This poor fellow was so committed to his own humility that every time I tried to reward him, it just wound up bouncing right off him and into the hands of someone else.” Aziraphale laughed, “Which made him even more deserving, and therefore we were told to reward him more! It was going to become utterly ridiculous if he hadn't suddenly died.”

“That's the problem with ascetics. They always think virtue is as good as a wool coat until there's an actual cold snap.”

“People need things, Crowley. Comfort, pleasure, to share it with someone.”

Lines crinkled at the corners of the demon's eyes as he smirked, Aziraphale was not as subtle as he liked to imagine, “Even you and I. I know, love.”

He'd been thinking around the question of whether he was willing to do this because it would make his angel happy, or because he actually wanted to. Complicated greatly by how much Crowley wanted to make his angel happy. What really put the pin in it was the concession that what he wanted was to know. He was, and always had been, uncontrollably curious; The kind of curiosity that angels were strongly discouraged from after the Fall, but about which he had never learned his lesson. “Take me upstairs.”

Crowley's bed was bigger – so was his flat, for that matter, but _this_ was where he felt safest. The plushness of the furniture, the cluttered, dusty shelves and aging wooden baseboards, the smell and warmth, all of which his own apartment lacked. The shop and its upstairs rooms felt like an extension of Aziraphale himself, one in which Crowley could curl up as if its timbers were a ribcage, to hide tucked behind the angel's heart.

This had not been lost on Aziraphale, who had willed his modest home to be warm and welcoming, to feel like a safe embrace around his beloved. (Recently this thought had been overshadowing the discouraging pall he'd put over the shop itself to keep customers at bay, and the result had been an influx of people with no interest in old books wandering in just because they _liked_ the place.) He had put some work into the bedroom, dusting and moving some of the books out so they could have more space. He pushed aside the heavy drapes and opened the window, inhaling fresh air scented with crab-apple blossoms, cut grass, and a hint of petrol.

The bedsprings squeaked behind him, and Aziraphale turned back to see Crowley sitting there, watching him, uncertain and eager both.

“So, how do we start?”

“Clothes, I think, yes, let's take your clothes off, I'd like t- Crowley!” 

“What?!” He was already naked with a thought before Aziraphale had even finished the suggestion.

The angel pouted, “I had wanted to undress you myself.”

“Oh, fine,” Crowley clicked his fingers to _un_-undress himself. “Go ahead.”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale laughed and sat down next to the flustered demon, “It's part of it, this slow uncovering. It's like opening a gift.” He began unbuttoning the charcoal silk waistcoat that wasn't there a moment ago.

Angling his arms back to let the garment be pushed from his shoulders, “But you've already seen me naked, lots of times.” Crowley wondered, had it always been titillating for Aziraphale to see him nude? The angel had never hinted at it, in any of the many times they'd been unclothed together; in baths and saunas, wading at the edges of rivers, sunbathing on beaches... clothing had often been optional before humans had gotten all weird about their bodies.

“Not the point, dear.” Aziraphale peeled up the supple. clinging shirt that remained the only layer between his hands and Crowley's pale, freckled skin. Here's the point, said his celestial fingertips, grazing over fine hairs and nerve endings: it's not seeing the body bared, it's being the one to bear it. It's not the result but the process. Aziraphale leaned in to kiss a constellation of tiny flecks at the arc of a clavicle, and the shiver his lips ignited told him that yes, that's the idea, he's starting to get it.

“Dearest, may I access your nervous system?”  
  
Crowley nodded, and then clarified verbally, ”Yes.” Trust was implicit, but the asking and granting of consent had its own rewards. The demon could feel the warm suffusion of Aziraphale flowing from silky fingertips and into him, the electricity of his lover pinging its way through his synapses and axons, and then settling comfortably into him, present but not intrusive. Crowley opened his eyes again and gave his angel a hapless grin.

Aziraphale could now sense the effect he was having on his partner, each spark of sensory input and how it was being received. He stroked down the slim redhead's sides and arms, sending cascades of sizzling feedback through both of them. Sensation echoed through the angel's body and reverberated back into Crowley, giving his neurons _ideas_ that they eagerly began work on.

Reptilian pupils dilated, Crowley's lips parted, the thinnest gap, and his skin began to ripple – first in gooseflesh, and then with a flowing, shadowy suggestion of diamond-shaped scales along his limbs. Aziraphale's sensuality was intense, the easy arousal of flesh that had been practiced in epicurean pleasure for thousands of years, a body which knew itself and withheld nothing. “Oh, fuck.”

“Go slow,” The angel's words brushed across Crowley's jaw, where it felt as if that warm breath could make the tiny snake at his ear squirm. “There's no rush, no hurry. Take what you want.” His strong arms wound about his demon's waist to hold him secure, and Crowley leant into him.

“Bless me, that's amazing – D'you feel that all the time?”  
  
“No.” Aziraphale chuckled, “But often when I'm with you.”  
  
Usually, when the angel said something sappy, it would melt into Crowley's chest, just above the diaphragm, and spread up into his throat and cheeks, a glow of fondness and love. He was used to that, it was a familiar burn, old and steady. But Aziraphale had taught him something new, and he felt that heat turn and sink into the space between his loose-jointed hips.  
  
'Lust' it whimpered, wanting and writhing, something heavy and alien and frightening – surely not meant to be part of him – and he instinctively fought it, his stomach muscles coiling in protest as another ripple of scales passed just under the surface. The angel held him tightly, soothing him with sweet words.

“I can stop it, just tell me.” Aziraphale's voice had gone low and rich, like a distant rumbling under the Earth, and Crowley could feel it vibrate through his chest as he lay against the angel. His partner was fully aware of both his struggle and his awe, in trying to reconcile himself with this new piece that Crowley desired desperately to fit into the whole of him.

“No, no, I want it.” Scarcely more than a breath, he was drawn taut by the winding of it, the rising electric crackle literally charging the air around him. The heavy, hot _thing_ of it was pulsing with potential between his thighs, aching to manifest itself into tissue and skin that could be made rigid and wet and stroked to completion.

Crowley could smell it, now. The circuit of arousal between himself and Aziraphale, who was broadcasting pheromones as well as that incorporeal signal. He's sure he's noticed this scent before, sweet and musky under the cedar and spice of his angel's favorite cologne. But it had never been heady like this, never jolted through to the core of him, making him ache and plead, “_Aziraphale,_”  
  
“What do you need, darling?” Blunt, deft fingertips still drawing trails of sparks over Crowley's skin.  
  
The demon murmured, exhausted, “Rest.” And Aziraphale withdrew from him, gently easing off that overwhelming sensory feedback, until Crowley was again alone in his body.

The blond angel kissed him lightly, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “Would you like some tea?”

A nod, and then a tired shake, “Nap, first.”

“Nap.” Aziraphale agreed, and rolled back into the middle of the bed, letting his arm fall open so Crowley could nestle in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talking. I warned you there'd be a lot of talking.  
The journey takes a sharp detour, they get into some rather heavy conversation.  
Slightly angsty, slightly sexy.  
This chapter is rated a light M.  
Warnings: Lots of talking, no smut yet. Heavy on the speculative lore. If you're looking for action you might want to skip this chapter.  
In which I project my pet theories via monologue.  
Fun stuff's coming, I promise.

-.*.-

2  
  


They slept, and when they woke, there was time for tea and cress-and-egg sandwiches on the little table next to the bed. Prepared by Aziraphale the old-fashioned (that is, human) way in the kitchenette, and brought back to the bedroom on a floral formica tray.  
  
Crowley had always liked eggs. No doubt something primordial in his hindbrain, but the deviled salad in these tiny finger sandwiches was so rich and soft that Crowley ate four of them, letting the yolk spread across his palate. Aziraphale's lingering influence rendered the mouthfuls decadent and sensual.   
The angel studied Crowley as he picked up his third sandwich, and Aziraphale had a moment of pause. What was he doing to his demon? What other unforeseen effects would introducing desire to such an ancient, abiding creature have? What if Crowley decided he liked eating the way Aziraphale did? Would that change their relationship? He thought about hiding the Chocolate Bourbons he was saving for special occasions and chewed his lower lip, looking up at his companion from under pale blond lashes.

“Yes, angel?” Crowley licked a smear of egg off his thumb.  
  
“It's nice to see you eat.”

The demon made a soft, amused noise, wrinkling his nose, and Aziraphale smirked back, rising to move the table with its contents back against the wall. He remained standing over Crowley for a moment, bending to brush his lips against his lover's, and taking note of how Crowley tilted upward to chase his mouth. “Do you want to continue our adventure yet?”

Crowley's eyes widened as the question sank in, yellow expanding into his sclerae so much like the colour of that creamy egg filling he'd been savoring, “Yesss.” 

  
Guiding his mate to lay back into the pillows (more than Crowley liked, but still fewer than had been there when he'd first been allowed into Aziraphale's apartment), the angel stretched himself out alongside and slid his arm under Crowley's shoulders. Tilting his head just so, Aziraphale tenderly kissed and nibbled at that beautiful, milky throat, just as he already knew his lover would enjoy.

The demon's eyelids quivered, and he bit his lip with the rush of it, like reliving the first time they'd kissed, just as exciting and electric and a little bit frightening – something of the forbidden. Crowley arched up to clutch and cling, finding himself frustrated by layers of fabric; Aziraphale was still mostly clothed, having only removed his shoes and overcoat.

“Should I be undressing you?” With slender hands already gravitating toward Aziraphale's threadbare waistcoat, Crowley waited for the nod before proceeding to slip those little bronze circles from their well-worn eyelets. So long used to their purpose that there was no fumbling, no tugging, the buttons simply sighed and released their grip at a touch.

And then that bowtie, both loved and loathed, coming apart with a whispered promise, the shirt collar underneath fell open as soon as it was released. And with that tease of pink throat, Crowley's pupils widened, _the_ _point_ grasped like a gold ring. “Oh, yesss.” 

  
Aziraphale sat up straight to let Crowley continue to uncover him, reverently and sweetly, as if he'd never done it before – perhaps he hadn't. The way the demon looked at him, as if seeing him entirely anew.   
  
To Crowley, Aziraphale's body had been an aside to the angel's soul, a warm and inviting form to snuggle up to, pleasant-smelling and comforting, but ultimately, just a vessel. Now, his neurons alight with fresh fire, he stared with an all-enveloping want. Yet he still found himself unable to name his desire, knowing only that he was thoroughly steeped in it. He shoved the waistcoat and shirt back over Aziraphale's strong, rounded shoulders, and bent to lay his hot cheek against one while continuing to work the sleeves the rest of the way off. And as he freed the angel's hands, he requested of them.

“Touch me.”  
  
A wish easily fulfilled. Aziraphale started at his lover's prominent clavicle, running his thumbs across the graceful arches of them. He'd had so many years to map this body in his mind, memorizing it in detail both visual and tactile, and he already knew his favorite parts of Crowley's anatomy (if he had to admit to loving anything more than the whole.) These gracile collarbones, the dip at the throat, the hollows at the shoulders, exquisite. Traveling lower, he explored wiry muscle and a narrow, defined chest, its thatch of fine auburn hair tracking the midline of his abdomen down. He knew there was nothing yet at the end of that trail, but imagining the possibilities, he was sure he would have a new favorite no matter what he found there.  
  
The angel's hands laved over skin unaccustomed to its current state of heightened sensitivity, and Crowley let himself melt into Aziraphale's touch. Shivering at first, and then moaning low and quiet, with his head lolling back. The angel's thumb swiped over a dusky nipple and the demon groaned, “Sweet, blessed sin! Do you _know_ what you're doing to me?”  
  


Exploring the feedback his fingertips were eliciting, Aziraphale smiled, he certainly had an idea. “Well, let's see, now... These certainly seem to be in good working order. There's nothing amiss with your tactile response.” The clinical commentary made Crowley scoff, and he outright laughed when Aziraphale then asked, “Do you ever stimulate yourself?”  
  
“Do you mean wa- ur. Ah. Do. You. Mean masturbation, angel?”  
  
Aziraphale made an undulant, closed-mouthed sound, his own hands paused for a moment at the waistband of Crowley's jeans, “Yes. Do you?”  
  
“Once in a while. I am a demon.”

This evoked an amused snort. “Really, now. You know as well as I do that self-pleasuring is no more a real sin than... parallel parking.”

“I've seen you try to parallel park, it _is_ a sin. Ouch!” The yelp in response to getting a sharp pinch to the hip. It stung, but Crowley – rather to his surprise – found he liked it. “Oh, well. That's a new one.”  
  
Aziraphale scanned his lover's expression, the momentary widening of his brimstone pupils. “Is it? Hm. What do you usually do to yourself? I want to know what feels good to you.”

Crowley considered answers to that. When it came to having a pull, he didn't think much of it. As far as he was concerned, it was a form of self-care – like showering or trimming his nails or getting his hair done: a pleasurable part of maintaining the condition of his physical body, no more vital or shameful than any other. “I usually stick to the external set, you know, a cock. It goes faster that way. Get something slick in my hand, or sometimes I'll just use my mouth, and ten minutes by myself. It's not complicated.”

Aziraphale had lost some of his focus at the suggestion of 'mouth', caught by the vivid mental movie his imagination was presenting – the various positions in which the lithe demon's body could twist and curl to manage that trick. He pulled himself out of distraction, and found himself disappointed by Crowley's brief and unloving description. “Oh... oh. That's all? Do you think about anything?”

“Not usually. I just try to keep myself focused. But, mmn, lately I've been thinking about you. Kissing you.”

“Just kissing?” He smiled and then bit his lower lip at the look on Crowley's face.  
  
After some cheek-worrying, Crowley said, “Yeah. It tends to turn on me and ruin it if I go further. 'm sorry, love. I know you wouldn't hurt me.”

“Never,” Aziraphale breathed. His hands still rested at the waist of the demon's jeans, and he moved them toward the button in front, “May I take these off?”

Crowley exhaled, “No. Not yet. Could you do more of that, um. You know, around my throat?” He smoothed his hand along a celestial arm, feeling the firmness of muscle under deceptively soft skin.

Absolutely happy to oblige, Aziraphale's mouth found its target at the side of Crowley's neck, using his perfect teeth just so over the thick tendon to elicit soft sounds of pleasure. He kissed along the ridges of Crowley's trachea, the lines of his veins and muscles, each in statuesque relief. Between presses of moistened lips, he purred sultry extolments. “You're so lovely, my sweet demon. So gentle and kind,” a challenge to Crowley’s oft self-abashing comments.

There was no disagreement, no complaint, and, Aziraphale noticed, there hadn't been in a while. Since the previous year, in fact. Not a glare, not a hiss, only a rising of pinkness in Crowley's face and a little abashed sound of acceptance. The angel stroked back an unruly lock of sunset hair, “You used to hate it when I said you were kind. Or nice.”

“No, I didn't. I had to tell you I did, but I swear, I didn't.”

“Because of Hell.” Aziraphale didn't need to ask. They'd sacrificed so much, hurt each other so deeply, because of that same fear, but some truths were slower to surface than others.

“Mmn. Yeah.”   
  
Winding the curl of hair around his index finger, the angel's eyes had deepened from a stormy sky to a tumultuous ocean; “Do you know how many times I've kept my tongue in check when I wanted to tell you how good you are? How special? You're unlike any other demon I've met.”  
  
Crowley raised his hand to grasp Aziraphale's wrist, “No, love. You're wrong, I'm not special. No, scratch that. I absolutely am. Just not in the way you're thinking.”  
  
Aziraphale blinked, the words struck him as nonsense, but he could hear weight in Crowley's tone, “Dear?”   
  
“I worked something out a long time ago, couldn't ever tell anyone about it. Except, ah, well, I can tell you anything.” Crowley shifted his weight and nudged the angel to sit up again. Aziraphale did so, but kept one hand on his mate's, drawing circles over the tendons with his thumb.   
  
“The thing of it,” Crowley explained, “The trick of it. Once I figured out The Almighty's game, that there really aren't any rules, I started really thinking about, oh, all of it. You know, our whole deal with right and wrong, and why we're doing it.” His expression had turned wistful. “And fuck's sake, I've tried so hard, but I_ know_ I'm not evil.”   
  
“Well I know that.” Of course he did. They'd cycled back on this conversation every few hundred years. Crowley feigning insult and growling denials, and Aziraphale a little more certain of his evaluation each time he caught the demon doing something noble.

He'd heard too many rumors of the fae stranger with blood-red hair and hidden eyes; the timely wanderer who had whispered a warning just before the mountain exploded, the army invaded, the rains began. Or he'd run into Crowley in disguise, posing as a doctor in one of those hideous beaked masks full of lavender and chamomile. When asked, the demon would admit to using his limited healing ability to cure infants of the plague. Of course those children would grow up tainted, Crowley had insisted, he had planted doubt and wickedness in their tiny hearts as he stole them from dark homes where their parents' corpses had already gone cold.

“How many times did I have to tell you I wasn't responsible for this or that bloody nightmare of human cruelty before you believed me?” Crowley asked, “You and I are both perfectly aware who's behind all the real atrocities in this world. That kind of horror show isn't really Hell's style, never was.” Crowley went quiet, gathering his memories. His gaze drifting down to Aziraphale's clasped hands, then up again. “I, er. Look, I'm getting at something here. I used to know a demon who'd accidentally started off one of the worst genocides in history, and it destroyed him. Demons were never meant to be evil, we were supposed to be the opposing force to Heaven, the weight that balances the scale.”  
  
Aziraphale continued to lightly rub his thumb over Crowley's knuckles, enjoying the flush it brought to the demon's fine features. “I suppose that makes sense. But if Heaven is Good, then what's the opposite of that if it's _not_ evil?”  
  
“There's the other thing. Heaven might be capital-G Good, but don't kid yourself, you know it's not actually _good. _ Maybe it was, once, but it sure as sin isn't anymore.” Crowley noted the struggling look Aziraphale gave him, but he persisted. “Heaven's gig is mostly about keeping people under control. Making sure they're behaving, toeing the line. Heaven keeps humans from overdoing it with the fun stuff Hell offers 'em. Between upstairs and downstairs, we keep humanity from getting too deep into indulgence or repression. Too much of either will ruin them, but they need both. How can being half of a greater whole be evil?”

Aziraphale's face crinkled, lines forming around his features with intense thought, and he couldn't help but sound somber, “Oh. That actually does make sense.”

“None of us started out bad. Is the point I'm making. We never stopped being angels, in any way that matters, we were just, just... broken.” Will and body and mind, most of the poor bastards. “I was lucky enough to be a little smarter, a little cleverer, managed to stay out of Hell as much as I could. But I know it wouldn't have made any difference If I'd been stuck down there. I'd be just as twisted and sick now as the rest of 'em. Have pity, angel. None of them deserved what they got.”

It felt wrong to admit, but the truth filled Aziraphale's throat with burgeoning guilt. He opened his mouth to release it. “If that's... oh. No, no, surely...”

Crowley's eyes fixed on the angel, wide-irised and waiting.

“Oh... oh. I've been a terrible fool, Crowley.” Aziraphale moaned, “All this time I've been telling myself it was you, _you_ were different. I thought your goodness was unique.” He clutched at his hands, swallowing thickly, “Or... maybe I just wanted to think that so I could hold onto my bigotry.”  
  
“It's not the lack of evil that makes me different, love, it's hate. Most demons are just saturated with it. You whip the most loyal dog enough and it'll bite. Is that the dog's fault or yours?”

Pursing his mouth, Aziraphale considered. “I remember being told that the definition of 'evil' was being in antinomy to Heaven, with no regard for why. But, of course, I didn't ask questions then.” He tutted and stroked Crowley's forearm, “I needed you to teach me how.”

  
“Nah, just showed you it wasn't wrong.” The demon let his eyelids lower, lulled somewhat by the balm of Aziraphale's touch.  
  
“I'm starting to get that. Honestly, I don't know how much of this I can handle all at once, my dear. You've made me have to rebuild my entire world. Oh, but no, it's not your fault,” He added before his companion could get defensive, “You've only told me the truth. I'm only seeing how dishonest I've been with myself, and having to come to terms with that. Well, it's... it feels terrible.”  
  
Crowley couldn't help smiling, full to aching with pride. Both as a friend and as a demon, to have brought an angel to such profound doubt – an absolutely wicked, sinful thing to do, and in his opinion, the most moral act he could have done for Aziraphale. And to see his best friend come around, to see his angel embrace his own mind and free will, however painful the process may have been, made Crowley feel as if he were aglow. “We-ell. You know. A wound hurts the most when it's healing.”  
  
“Quite so. Hell certainly seems evil, though. It was awful when I was there.” The stink, the damp, the crowding and despair, the way it was somehow too cold and too hot at the same time. The place just felt _bad_, an endless miasmic dungeon of soul-eroding corruption.

Crowley pressed his lips thin, tilting his head back slightly. He turned to lean back against the headboard, inviting Aziraphale to nestle up against him. “Mm. It might be, if anything was. But Hell is more what was done to us than a place, _per se_. The rebels were just children seeking their parent's guidance. And instead of giving it, that parent punished them, and made them punish each other, until they were convinced there was no goodness left – Except for us few who ran away and hid, so we wouldn't be beaten down like the rest. It was luck, that's all it was. Luck and cowardice.”  
  
“It's not bravery to walk into a sure loss, Crowley.” Aziraphale tucked his arm behind his mate's wiry body, it was nice to be able to do this again. Back around the end of the 17th century, Heaven had gotten a bug in their britches about keeping tabs on Earthly angelic activity, which had included operatives spying and reporting back on his chummy interactions with a certain agent of the enemy. To say it had put the kibosh on their progressing relationship would be putting it lightly.

Crowley made a throaty sound in acknowledgment, and leant to kiss the angel's golden hair, nuzzling into the scent of conifer and cinnamon.

Aziraphale pursued his demon's mouth and claimed it for his own. One of the perks of being near-immortal beings was the ability to ignore the passage of time when it suited them. They might have spent hours or days in tender devotion, and neither would have been able, were they asked, to say.  
  
They moved on when they were good and ready, and only because there was more to talk about.  
  
Crowley's mood had brightened considerably by then, and he told his lover in a conspiratorial tone, “I'm about to say something ridiculous, angel, and you'd better not laugh.”   
  
The angel's already-wide eyes grew improbably large, but he forced back the smile building in his cheeks, “I will try my best, love. Please, go on.”  
  
“I am the greatest agent of human happiness this world has ever known.”

Aziraphale breathed an incredulous, “Really.”  
  
Crowley grinned, preening, “I am. If it weren't for me, there'd still just be two humans in a garden, and none of this would exist. It'd all still be oak forests full of wild boar and flies.”  
  
“Now, Crowley, we know that was an assignment -”  
  
“From the almighty Themself, but I was still the one to make it happen. Think of it. No original sin, no tailored clothes, no music, no delicious pastries, no wine, no _books_.”

The angel rolled his eyes, “Darling, you cannot take credit for all that.”  
  
“I can!” Crowley laughed, “I will! Films, Aziraphale, shoes! Chocolate!”  
  
“Murder, war, slavery.” Retorted the angel. Even without religious meddling from on high, humanity had come with those notions pre-installed, and Crowley's fruit-based enlightenment had unpacked it.  
  
“Fuck.” The demon held his hand up, “Okay, okay, right. The good and the bad, you've got me there. But, consider this. My work as a demon is part of what makes human life worth living. I make their lives interesting, I provide challenges that humans have the potential to overcome. I told you, Demons don't do widespread death and destruction. But!” And here he punctuated the word with a hand gesture, aiming both pointer fingers outward, “Do you know _why_?”   
  
He might. “Enlighten me, my dearheart.”  
  
“Well. Because it wouldn't _count. _It's like you've said. Choice. If humans aren't given the option to give in or rise above, they can't be condemned, either. It's part of Their grand Game. If we killed innocent people, they'd go to Heaven by default, and we'd never just hand perfectly good souls over like that.”

Creases formed around Aziraphale's mouth, “Do you think the Almighty really planned all of it like that?”  
  
Crowley paused and stared out through the gap in the curtains, taking a quiet moment to weave his fingers with his angel's. “Mmnh. Who's to say? I'm not convinced They planned anything, in any way we'd understand 'planning'.”

“To be perfectly honest,” Aziraphale said, “I don't know if I'd be happier knowing that They intended for us to eventually be here, together, or if they didn't.”  
  
The demon grinned, a long eyetooth hooked over his lower lip, “Well, I for one like the idea of giving the ol' They-Who-Is a surprise.”  
  
“Really? Like what?” Oh, sure, he could guess, but he wanted to _hear_ it, to be thrilled by Crowley's impious tongue describing lewd acts in defiance of his Maker.   
  
Goodness, was he being aroused by blasphemy now? Is that who he was? If angels could still fall, Aziraphale was sure he'd have a black halo by now.

Crowley wasn't quite ready to give his angel that particular thrill, and made only a relatively modest suggestion, “You could finish stripping me.” He leered, leaning back to give his angel easier access, lifting his rump and then his legs as Aziraphale took him up on it.  
  
Shimmying the tight fabric over lithe flanks, Aziraphale was unsurprised to find Crowley wearing nothing underneath the denim, and he paused to admire what the demon had summoned at the conflux of his thighs.   
  
“Oh, my dear, you look _delicious_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here it starts to get spicy. Perhaps more literally than expected.  
Some weird things happen here. I don't want to spoil too much, but they're fairly tame in the grand scheme of things.  
However, this is where we start to earn that E rating.

-.*.-

3

For nearly as long as he could remember, or at least, as long as he could have remembered before certain recent events, Crowley had wanted. He wanted respect, admiration, comfort, safety – and he had desired Aziraphale in particular, above all other things. He had begged in his body language for every touch, each illicit embrace and forbidden kiss, constantly leaning toward the angel as if every molecule of water in his body were being tugged at, his blood a tide to Aziraphale's warm moon.  
  
In the beginning, familiarity had been easier. Before they'd been affected by pride, paranoia, and frustration; pointless distractions that allowed stupid, petty disagreements to drive decades-wide wedges between them. Yet no matter how fiery, their quarrels never actually kept them apart. They would, inevitably, crash back together – never knowing if they would fight or reconcile, but always, always willing to find out.  
  
The last few years had been the worst, from the perspective of wanting. Preceding the ramp-up to the scheduled end of the world, they'd both been largely left to their own devices, ignored for centuries at a time; Crowley had rested on his unearned laurels and the fame of original sin, and Aziraphale was... well, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, until he wasn't.

And then, to be forced (by their own choice, granted,) to work so closely that they could smell each other on their clothes, to see each other every day, all while being so consistently scrutinized that there was scarcely a moment wherein they could let their guard down... Ah, _that_ had been a glorious torture.  
  
There was a _want_ that came naturally to angels, a longing for love and union, which at its core had nothing to do with physical bodies. However – as Aziraphale had told him – when given a corporation, nearly every angel stationed on Earth had eventually given themselves over to temptations of the flesh.  
  
“The first group they sent down were a little too precise in their corporeal forms, and we wound up with several hundred half-angelic children.” Aziraphale had explained. “It was a terrible mess, let me tell you, the paperwork was just Hellish!”  
  
So really, Crowley had no reason to be frustrated or angry with himself for having gravitated to someone who made him smile and laugh and feel like a better being for being known. It was just... This:  
  
Aziraphale stood at the edge of the bed, rolling his demon's stubbornly clinging jeans down to the knees, until he became impatient. With a mild show of preternatural strength, the angel simply grabbed the denim and gave a firm yank that took the garment right off, like a trick tablecloth from under wine glasses. He basked in how Crowley's pupils dilated, as well as the subsequent put-upon groan and thin attempt to hide the grin sneaking into the corners of his demon's mouth. Go ahead, dear; pretend you aren't _charmed_.  
  
And oh, the angel was charmed as well. To see such a lovely creature sprawled on his bed, sinking into the layers of faded covers and pillows, managing to look awkward and gangly and yet sublimely elegant all at once. Shoulder-length hair tousled and threatening to tangle, eyes wide and skin flushed. Crowley's sharp leanness would have looked emaciated, sickly on a human, but on him it was simply an ethereal slimness. He was taut and whiplike, quickness and power in his movements. Here to be explored were miles of freckled limbs, flexible spine, and a pelvis that pitched and yawed like a boat at sea. Aziraphale licked his lips with a near-predatory smile, looking down at the sumptuous offering before him.  
  
Crowley had chosen a traditionally masculine configuration, as it made him feel less vulnerable than the other options. Like his wings, other such body parts were already formed, and kept in a waiting area just outside of reality until they were summoned. So while Crowley could have given himself something bigger or more exotic, it was far less work to simply call forth what he'd been using since he'd originally stocked his metaphysical closet. And in the nearly three millennia since, this was the first time he'd thought about whether or not it was sufficient. Crowley glanced down at the modest endowment laying half-hard on his thigh and up again. His angel did not look disappointed.  
  
“It's excellent, absolutely classical, my love.” Aziraphale lowered himself onto his knees on the mattress, moving over his lover to rest his weight on one hand while using the other to stroke that wild, ruddy mane. He adored the look Crowley got when he was touched like that, the angel's soft palm soothing over his scalp and hair; eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted, head tilted into the curve of a merciful hand. He looked absolutely beatific, like an ecstatic saint in one of Murillo's paintings.

Interpreting the demon's soft moans as encouragement, Aziraphale began to roam further down the lithe body presented to him, shifting back onto his haunches to bend and kiss, attention briefly focused on the sensitive, still-marked spot behind an ear, sucking it red anew before moving on to new territory. For every time he'd told himself he'd be satisfied with their comfortable, casual physicality, he knew he'd lied. He would have accepted it, yes, given up any chance of _this_ to keep Crowley at his side. But he could never have stopped dreaming of it, a fantasy as bittersweet as the taste of his demon's mouth.  
  
The angel's lips played across Crowley's chest and stomach, laying paths of kisses between one destination and the next. He turned his head to lick one of his thumbs and roll the wet pad over a nipple, making it tighten, and he grinned with glee when his directed breath inspired a roll of serpentine hips. Aziraphale felt regret, as well, for having let Crowley starve for this intimacy for so long. But he could not have made that first move, not back at the inn on the banks of the Brenta, nor just a few months ago with a wine-slick tongue.  
  
Lightly, delicately, the angel bit down on the protruding edge of a hipbone, just below where he'd pinched earlier and noted the reaction. And the whimpers his teeth drew, sinking into Crowley's flesh, there, and again on the opposite side, were as heady and delightful as the best champagne.

Aziraphale's perfect teeth impressed new crescents into the inside of Crowley's thigh, and the demon yelped, writhing and kicking at the duvets. The angel laid a strong hand on the middle of his beloved's belly and held him down, pausing to look up and await some signal to stop or continue.  
  
“Gh, uh. Ticklish.” Crowley explained, fully blushing.  
  
Really. Now that was interesting. The angel stooped to bite again, less gently, these marks would require a few days to fade away. Crowley squealed and laughed, and then gasped and clamped a hand over his own mouth.

Amid muffled laughter, Aziraphale kept biting, the pressure of his teeth right on that edge between ticklish and painful, until an insistent hand shoved at him to stop.  
  
The angel flashed another sinful, mischievous smile and crooked his brows over the vast, dark waters of his eyes, asking for permission. There was a slight, but decisive nod in answer, and Aziraphale curled his smooth, warm palm around Crowley's member, to coax it from unsteady curiosity to pointed interest. The demon moaned and his thighs tensed in an aborted attempt to thrust, kept still by the angel's other hand still pressing him into the mattress. He found he was both comforted and aroused by that power, and let his head drop back into the pillows.

“Aziraphale. Help me.” The fresh-forged pathways in Crowley's brain, the ones his angel had let him experience and keep, still felt hot and raw, confusing in their intensity. He now wanted several things that had until quite recently made him nauseated to think about, and his gut felt knotted with anxiety and conflict. Having a full erection – which was being slowly stroked – was just making it more difficult to sort his real feelings from the urges of lust, and he lost all hope of achieving this, of thinking at all, when Aziraphale bowed to envelop Crowley's cock with his mouth – within those soft, plush, perfect cupid's bow lips.  
  
No amount of masturbation, nor even the few times he'd had sex with human women, had come close to this. It had felt nice, but... that was all: An enjoyable rush of chemistry and release, and then he'd get dressed again. If there had been a human involved, he'd walk out of their tiny lives as quickly as possible, seemingly unaffected.

_This_, though, what Aziraphale was doing to him, made him feel like his spine was going to turn molten and burn him from the inside out. Hot and tight and too... too much. Suddenly, tension flared between his shoulder blades, blood roaring in his ears, tinting his vision as his heart leapt in panic. _No, no, too much!_ “A-Az! Yellow!”

To his credit, Aziraphale, despite absolutely not wanting to stop, was sitting up with his hands in his lap by the time Crowley had finished uttering the safeword. But it had been 'Yellow', not 'Red', so he simply waited quietly, letting his mate calm down and regain control, before asking, “Dear?”  
  
The demon sat up, legs crossed, pulling a pillow into his lap and resting his elbows on it. “It's okay, I'm okay.” As if he was trying to convince himself just as much as the other. “It'll be fine.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” Even with his hands kept to himself, Aziraphale could feel the stress coming off the demon, a crackling static of anxiety.  
  
A shake of the head, a bob of auburn waves. “No. I mean I would, of course I would.” Crowley shrugged, it was there, acrid at the back of his throat, but he couldn't quite bring it up.

When no more explanation appeared forthcoming, Aziraphale asked, “Would you let me try to help? I could give you a massage. You know, I was trained in it a long time ago, but I don't believe I've ever practiced on you.”  
  
That did make Crowley pause, “You've rubbed my shoulders now and then, but … really? Huh, well.” He scoffed lightly, “All this time, you've been holding out on me.” Chuckling, the tips of his slightly forked tongue pressed between his sharp teeth as he gave his companion an unshielded smile.  
  
“If you'd allow me, I'll make up for it. Shall I?”  
  
Flicking his eyes downward a moment, Crowley considered, and then looked up again and nodded.  
  
When Aziraphale lifted his palm and nudged the redhead to turn over, Crowley did so without hesitation, eager for a form of intimacy wherein he could trust himself. He trusted Aziraphale far more than his own gnawing, traitorous subconscious; he understood his angel's motives with greater clarity. Perhaps Aziraphale could understand him where he himself did not?  
  
A moment of will summoned a bottle of lotion from Aziraphale's bath, and when the angel squeezed a dollop into his heated palm, Crowley could smell the richness of bergamot and sage as it warmed. He lay his head down and closed his eyes. A short moment later the bed shifted, and Crowley felt an easy weight settle on the backs of his thighs as Aziraphale straddled them. Both slicked celestial hands pushed in just above the demon's hips, starting to spread the lotion and work it into Crowley's pale back. Strong thumbs dug deep, each upward shove over his corded muscles making him moan, slowly relaxing and becoming supple.  
  
“Tha'sss love-ly.” Crowley purred, stretching his arms out. He could feel those transcendent hands tracing every line of him, every joint and tendon, as if re-sculpting him from mortal clay. It was amazing, he reflected, how despite all the work and energy he put into preserving his body, it was still so frail, so _human._ Or perhaps it wasn't – when considering what Crowley put it through, all those hidden pockets and pools of tension were mere dings in his lovingly kept chassis.  
  
Flaws that Aziraphale was currently polishing out of him, and “Oh... AH!” A joint cracked, and then a hazy rush suffused him. Aziraphale had expounded at length on sexual pleasure, about the heights of erotic bliss, but how could anything be better than this? _Trained_, he recalled, the angel had trained to do this. To help heal people? Surely not to deliver them such lush gratification as this? No physical act, he was sure, would be an improvement.  
  
His lover's soft, chiming voice infiltrated through Crowley's endorphin fog, “May I have your wings?”  
  
“Nnfh?”

“Wings, darling.” Aziraphale repeated, “Bring them out for me. Please.”  
  
Crowley held his breath, one heartbeat, two, Aziraphale hadn't touched his wings since... oh, since the third or fourth century... No, no, that wasn't true. There had been one instance much later. Germany, 1352. Fuck, he didn't want to think about _that_. Hell had nothing on that. Aziraphale had been his only point of light during those years, keeping him from simply giving up and burying himself between the roots of a Wald-oak until it was over. They'd often taken comfort from each other after long months of grueling work, and when he'd arrived at their meeting place filthy and exhausted, Aziraphale had cleaned him with a wet cloth and sheep's fat soap, and then drawn his wings out to groom them. He could barely remember it, he must have fallen asleep there, his head on his angel's thigh.  
  
But here he felt safe, and his dark plumage unfurled to fill the room. Aziraphale pushed them down and back, to rest loose and heavy over the sides of the bed. They had been kept in their ethereal pocket for centuries up until that moment on the airbase, and Aziraphale remembered how tattered they'd looked. Not that his own were much better. They may have been tucked outside of reality, but they still existed, moving and reacting to their owners' emotional state. And if the condition of the demon's wings were anything to go by, Crowley definitely needed this.

Aziraphale brought a boar-bristle brush to hand, and started from the outside, smoothing the largest and rattiest feathers first, and working his way in toward the coverts and scapulars. Crowley's primaries were rougher than the angel's, each one edged with a subtle sharpness that could be used defensively in battle, but he'd forgotten how silky-soft they became further in. Under him, his demon hummed and sighed, lulled by the soothing brush. “Aren't you pretty,” Aziraphale remarked, “Look at you, such beautiful colours.” Dangerous, he thought, aposematic. He put the brush aside and carded his fingers into those dark plumes, up where they anchored to the upper part of the limbs, seeking the warm, delicate skin below, and Crowley's feathers lifted reflexively to let him in.  
  
Those limbs, heavier than they looked, were also much stronger, not nearly as delicate as humans tended to expect. Wings were weapons, shields and shelters, and under the soft quills there was ropy, dense musculature. And Crowley moaned, the most obscene sound Aziraphale had ever heard from him, as angelic hands manipulated his long-neglected demonic appendages. Now and then, Aziraphale tugged at a dead, greyed feather, sliding those ready to be shed from their follicles and setting them aside.  
  
“Mm, you look so relaxed, dear. I'll have to get you to do mine, sometime.”  
  
The limp redhead made a cluttered noise that somehow meant something akin to 'I'd be happy to, but I'm not as strong or skilled at it as you are.”

Aziraphale, having had plenty of practice deciphering Crowley's incoherent noises, just clucked his tongue, “Oh never mind that, I'm sure you'd do a fine job. You don't have to be rough with me.” And he indulged in a small, oh-you'd-barely-notice-it giggle.  
  
“Mmmngh.” Crowley grunted in complete agreement.

Aziraphale worked his way up each wing's muscles and joints from the shoulder to the single tiny sharp claw hidden in the alulae, and then back again to knead hard and thoroughly at the point where the limb met the body. This was where all corporeal angels and demons eventually developed an ache, the place where reality would bend, where his entire anatomical structure would shift to conceal them.  
  
And bless him if it didn't jolt right through the demon; make him arch his back and mewl when the most affected spot, right along the second set of scapulae, were ground into so deeply that light sparkled behind his eyes. Crowley had been wrong. So very wrong. There _was_ something better.  
  
It felt like he was sinking through butter, and Crowley let himself float in it, utterly happy. He did not expect, after the pain had transformed into silky euphoria, that he'd start to feel that tingling heat again low in his belly, with it an insistent heaviness returning between his legs. He forced himself to ignore it, tried to dismiss it, but he found it stubborn. Oh, that was frustrating, but he refused to dwell on it, such itches could be scratched another time. Any other time.  
  
The angel's warm presence lifted, and Crowley made a dissatisfied noise at its loss. Distantly, he heard Aziraphale ask him to turn over again, and through the fog of endorphins swaddling his brain like loose cotton, he pulled his wings to his sides and pushed himself up, flipping himself onto his back and letting all his limbs fall laxly open again. “S'good?”  
  
“Perfect, my love, my radiant starling.” Resuming his position over Crowley's thighs, Aziraphale ignored the pointed migration of Crowley's blood, and shifted so that he wasn't putting his weight directly on anything tender. Leaning forward, the angel worked his digits through the under-coverts to repeat his ministrations. He knew the inside of a wing was far more sensitive, and worked it with greater care, yet hard enough to have his lover whining and squirming, gasping out agony and rapture in the same breath.

When he'd finished with the most vulnerable spot, close to the join of wing to body, where the feathers were little more than down, Aziraphale turned his fingers in and began to scratch.  
  
This was something the angel had found so delightfully pleasurable when he'd first had it done, as to have felt guilty about it for several centuries. In part for trying to get Crowley to do it for him, but never telling his friend exactly what he wanted, and never reciprocating out of selfishness and shame. But this had happened long before Aziraphale had ventured into the more mundane pleasures of the flesh. By comparison, it was merely an introduction to the erogenous potential of his mortal body, and so it seemed like a good bridge to bring Crowley across as well.  
  
Aziraphale expected moans, maybe a thrust of eager hips against his backside, but instead, after a minute or two of having the angel's manicured nails draw across that delicate, silk-thin skin, the demon simply... stopped. Crowley hadn't used a safeword, nor did he look upset or … even aware. His eyes were thin gold rings around black circles, sclerae tinted with sulphur, unblinking and unfocused.  
  
“Crowley?” Sitting up, the blond withdrew his hands, and then lightly caressed his partner's face, along the edge of his jaw. “Crowley, dear?”  
  
Aziraphale frowned when there was no acknowledgment, growing worried. He shook the limp demon more firmly, which would usually be enough to wake him, and when this too had no effect, the angel bit his lip and made a unilateral decision.

Closing his eyes, concentrating, he slipped through their spiritual connection, easy as ions on a wire. He didn't like to use this ability without consent, but he needed to find where Crowley had gone...

Gone. Gone, somewhere else, somewhere... empty and beautiful, like a sky full of morning sunlight, flying, soaring, nothing but a glow within a glow. A vast presence was looking down at him, wonderful and solid and world-anchoring. _ Oh, my goodness. _ It dawned upon Aziraphale that he was seeing himself through Crowley's eyes, kneeling above with his brow knit in concern. The angel looked mountainous and exalted, his hair brilliant, his eyes like galaxies, his wings – had he taken those out? He was sure he hadn't. But he could see them: four of them – two white and two grey – bracketing the tiny universe of light that Crowley was showing him.  
  
“Good lord.” Aziraphale murmured, pulling himself back into his own mind. He pursed his mouth and gave Crowley another gentle shake, “Love, wake up.” It took some firmer nudging to bring the demon back, but eventually he managed it.  
  
“Nnghah?” Dazed and blinking, Crowley's limbs stiffened with anxious confusion for a brief second, and then went slack again. Well, it was better than his previous unresponsive state.  
  
“Can you hear me, Crowley? Are you alright?”  
  
After a long moment of reflecting upon the question, the demon exhaled, “Yeah.”  
  
Aziraphale not so much, his stomach was still fluttering, “Oh, good, I was worried. You just... oh, you left me, for a minute there.”  
  
Still somewhat dazed, Crowley apologized, unaware that it was irrational. “Oh... m'sorry, angel. D'n mean to scare you.”  
  
With a weighty exhale, Aziraphale smiled, shook his head, and ran his fingertips over Crowley's face again, a thrum of fondness passing from one to the other. “I know, dearheart, I saw. It was only frightening for a little while. But you're alright now. You are, aren't you? I didn't hurt you?”

Crowley gazed up at his angel, blinking until his eyes had returned to their usual appearance, yellow on white. He rolled the thought around in his brain before speaking it aloud.  
  
“No, it was actually wonderful. It was absolutely wonderful.” He knew Aziraphale had been there, for a fraction of a second only, but it was more than enough, the angel had seen.  
  
Aziraphale, still nearly in Crowley's lap, made a curious 'Hmf!' sound, surprise in the tilt of his chin, the lift of his eyebrows, “Oh, my. I suppose we'll have to explore that further. But, perhaps not yet.”

However fleeting, that moment, that bizarre intermission, had changed something in Crowley. Aziraphale found himself being gazed up at with renewed want, and his awareness of it made him shiver and pinken across the cheeks.

“No, not yet.” Crowley agreed, “Er. I think I'd like to try that fellatio deal again, if you want. But... Mm, 'd'like to do it to you this time. I'm good at it, first hand experience.” He flicked his dark brows upward suggestively, “How's that sound?”  
  
That pink blush spread to the angel's ears and chest, “Oh, I'd love that.” Aziraphale let himself be pushed back, fully ready to cede control for the moment. He was guided to sit at the edge of the bed, with the demon sinking down before him. Crowley on his knees, thighs slightly spread, hair a dark corona aflame with evening sunlight... Aziraphale knew he was seeing Crowley in his element: decisive, competent, and shockingly attractive.  
  
Also impatient. Crowley used a miracle to relocate Aziraphale's trousers and pants to the downstairs coatrack (which wasn't bad considering he was aiming for the chair at the other side of the bedroom. Retrieving something teleported to a far off jungle or ocean trench was far more difficult than sending it there.)  
  
The angel reflexively pulled his knees up, “Croouh-ley! Please! Warn me before you do that.”  
  
Crowley's voice had wandered down into a rarely-heard, velvety octave, “Oh, don't tell me you're self-conscious, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale's face tensed, confirming at least, “A little.”  
  
“Oh no, no, we're not having that, not with me.” Steady hands slid down rose-petal soft curves and thickly muscled thighs. He used no force to pull his angel's knees apart, his hungry gaze authoring volumes on his love, describing in a glance its fathoms, it's breadth, its steadfast direction. He rested his weight on Aziraphale's legs and inclined himself to taste that tempting mouth. Succulent, decadent, hiding a heavenly pink tongue laced with honey. Crowley had always had a sweet tooth.  
  
He released Aziraphale's mouth and began a more concise journey south. Where the angel had fluttered his mouth across Crowley's chest and belly, the demon left moist rosettes in a steady line from throat to groin. Though he very much wanted to detour across that soft stomach, to explore the ripple of strength under the padding, the places where he could feel definition just under the plush, that would have to be a diversion for another time. When he had less of an imminent purpose.

Aziraphale felt as though Crowley's kisses were slowly turning his entire being into honey, as if he might just drip through the demon's arms, ready to be lapped up and swallowed. His moans and sobs serving as heated encouragement. Turning into a wail when sharp teeth grazed across the unmarked milky canvas of his inner thigh. “Oh! Mmh-o-oh!”

Crouched there, like a panther before the pounce, poised just short of wrapping those long, wiry fingers around Aziraphale's erection. Crowley paused, looking up with wide eyes, a silent plea for permission.  
  
“Yes, please yes!”  
  
And my gosh, my _GOD_. Aziraphale's eyes slid closed and he gasped, Crowley was so very, very gentle, and it was maddening. His touch felt like worship, heretical and delectable, and the angel let his thighs part wantonly, toes curling as that hand, so gracefully formed, so agile, expertly stroked his cries to a new pitch.

Crowley swallowed, readying himself, “Okay, yeah.” A mumbled warning, hot breath a portent of the glory of the demon's mouth, before it took Aziraphale in and wrapped that utterly wicked, inhuman tongue around the length of him.

Aziraphale had not gone for the modesty Crowley had expected of him, and the angel's cock was satisfyingly thick in his mouth. Long enough to press against the back of his throat when his lips met the base of it, and o_h_, those stifled sobs, the potential of howls muffled behind Aziraphale's thinning self-control – better than honey, better than chocolate.  
  
Slipping his hands up under Aziraphale's buttocks, letting his fingers inhabit the dimples of his lover's sacrum, Crowley let everything else fall away as he summoned all his skill and all the desire his angel had shared with him. The demon drew back, repeatedly coiling and tightening his tongue, pushing back down again until he could squeeze the head of the angel's shaft in his throat. And then Aziraphale remembered he had hands, fingers that could be tangled in hair, and suddenly there they were, insistent and pulling, and Crowley's responsive groan made the angel choke.  
  
“Ah, love!” Aziraphale cried for the somethingeenth time, but the last few had been rising in pitch. “Crowley!”  
  
The fluttering, purring sound Crowley made in reply had his lover's powerful legs wrap around his shoulders and dig into the backs of his raven wings, their rough gripping likely to tug free another feather or two, not that he cared. His angel was so close, he could taste it, the source of that scent he'd been pursuing, that divine musk. It sank into his brain like a venom, and he needed more of it, hollowed his cheeks in pursuit, until Aziraphale's thighs clenched around him definitively.  
  
A human being, given some decades to learn themselves can figure out how to improve vastly on the basic orgasm. Even those with the exterior arrangement, who typically start out with a few sticky seconds of release, can take control. They can train themselves to climax longer, more intensely, even to reduce their refractory period or achieve their peak without ejaculation or erection. It's a challenging art, but quite doable.  
  
Expand upon this notion to a being who's had centuries to work on such mysteries. Aziraphale's body responded to him with devotion, as willing to chase its rewards as he was, and when the rush of his orgasm came upon him, it gave him everything he could have asked for. Crowley took him as deep as he'd go, (deeper, he's sure humans couldn't open their mouth that wide), and made the flexible rings in his throat grip him, hold him tight as he swallowed and sucked. Aziraphale felt himself start to go numb, a cool swell up the spine, his arms and legs fading into snow as his senses began to cloud. Every one of his neurons had turned its attention to the searing pull of his lover's mouth.  
  
“Crowley! I'm!” Words crumbled away as a new weightlessness claimed the angel, buoying him, even as molten lead pooled low inside, filling a place in his body that begged to be relieved of its load. Forcing his eyes open, he saw Crowley there, arms wrapped around his hips, lips around his cock, his hair wild and face flushed, and then those Venusian eyes locked on his, and Aziraphale's vision went white.  
  
Crowley knew what was coming, there was no mistaking the sudden taste of salt, seawater in his mouth, and the way his angel bucked, rocking his hips subtly and then jerking as he lost his composure. The _real_ warning was too short, however, and a surprise he had not considered. The plump, divine cock in his throat twitched, and suddenly he felt a tickling – no, a burning. His eyes widened, a moment of panic when he realized how trapped he was, utterly unable to pull himself out of Aziraphale's climactic hold, nor had he any way to safeword or even get a signal across, it was happening too fast. The burn became a sear as the angel's holy essence filled his mouth. Even if he bit down at this point, there was nothing for it.  
  
But oh, what a way to go!

He clutched at his angel's thighs, tears welling at the corners of his tightly-shut eyes, shaking in supplication, liquid fire flowing down into his belly. Please, please...  
  
Aziraphale released him, gasping, falling back into the mattress, sweat-damp and flushed, and still unaware of Crowley's distress. He lay with his hands clasped over his heart, feeling the thundering pulse of it, contented, until he heard hoarse coughing and stumbling. Crowley had gotten to his feet and was shakily drinking out of the silver creampot that Aziraphale had left with the rest of their tea set on the bedside table .

“Crowley?”

The demon made a 'wait' gesture, taking the pitcher with him and dropping himself inelegantly into the overstuffed chair in the corner. He gargled another mouthful and let it soothe his scalded throat. The implication struck Aziraphale and he drew a breath of horror. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah,” A rough croak. “But I've had worse.” He tried to lighten the moment, “Not as bad as when some prankster slipped a Scotch Bonnet into my strawberries.” He smiled, feeling silly for overreacting. But how could he know? Perhaps angelic semen could kill him, or perhaps it was only a little bit holy. Funny that, it didn't seem to extend to saliva or tears or sweat.  
  
Crowley thought about Nephilim, again. Mortals with angelic grace. He supposed it made sense.  
  
“I'm so sorry! I had no idea. Oh my gosh, I could have killed you. I could have _killed _you, Crowley!”  
  
“Ah,” And the demon finished the last drops of cream, “But you didn't.”  
  
Aziraphale pressed a hand to his forehead, “I know, I... oh, we can't risk that again.”  
  
“Wait, now. Don't be too hasty...”  
  
“No, I just mean... let's be more careful. Let me see you.” Aziraphale got up and crossed the room to start prodding at Crowley, who squeaked and swatted his hand. “Crowley, please! My issue is still inside you, for all we know it's like poison. At the very least you're going to wind up with an ulcer. Let me get rid of it.” He made a frustrated sound at Crowley's continued batting and grumbling. “Oh stop that!” He made a downward gesture.  
  
Crowley looked scandalized as he felt Aziraphale pull all the fluid out of his stomach. “Augh! I could have done that myself.”

“Probably, but you didn't.”

Pressing his lips together, he had to concede the point. “I hope you sent my stomach contents somewhere nice.”  
  
“Oh lord, I hope not!”

Despite his esophagus still being sore, Crowley laughed so hard he slid out of the chair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty angsty. At least, for me.  
Here we see the other side of Crowley's experience with angelic spice.  
There is, once again, a lot of talking and exposition of psychology, emotions, and speculative history.  
Crowley finally opens up about his sexual past. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mental manipulation (accidental), discussion of sexual abuse, angst, self-hatred, all around bitchy sulky demon mood.  
There is also a brief moment of almost non-con. But it doesn't go very far.

-.*.-

4  
  


The night passed, Crowley slept, and his throat healed itself without any trace of holy scarring.   
  
Sensing this helped Aziraphale calm himself. He couldn't stop thinking about it, berating himself. He could have killed Crowley, he should have known. It wasn't as if he'd never inspected his own issue, noticed the subtle sanctity of it. He was stupid, that's what it came down to. He had been stupid and he'd risked the life of his best friend, his world.  
  
But Crowley was alright, he was happy, and even the unpleasant surprise of a bit of grace down the throat hadn't dampened him. Not that it helped much. Crowley was reckless, impulsive, often taking his own safety for granted. Aziraphale did his best to ignore the gnaw of guilt and think instead on what he could do to solve the problem.  
  
The angel wondered if his divinity had been diluted by his separation from heaven, or if what Iophiel had done to him, returning to him some of his original power, had affected his grace. Could he alter himself to prevent accidentally blessing his poor demon in the future? And what of Crowley's emissions? Could demon-essence burn an angel? Would it be the same kind of shocking spiciness, or could it actually harm him?   
  
He lay against the headboard with Crowley using his upper arm as a pillow, a paperback edition of _The Bonfire of the Vanities_ open on the coverlet next to him, though he'd been having a difficult time reading it. The demon curled against didn't snore, but he certainly _wriggled _a lot. Far more than when he was awake. Not like Aziraphale's own tendancy to shimmy his shoulders in delight, either, but more of an agitated undulation of sinuous hips and back.  
  
Like Crowley was trying to slither away. to escape something. But he remained in his human form, pressed there against the radiantly warm celestial. The shifting was distracting, and Aziraphale had kept looking down from his book to study his demon's face, curious about his dreams; yet not enough so to violate the other's privacy. He'd had to peek earlier, when Crowley had slipped under, and he didn't regret doing so, but he felt he'd pried enough.  
  
In the early morning, the first greyish smudges of dawn creeping up the column of sky visible between thick curtains, the first hint of early birdsong, Crowley rolled over and pressed himself more firmly against the angel, his sinewy arm belting around Aziraphale's waist.  
  
“Good morning, love.”  
  
“Mnnh.” The writhing was more intentional now that he was, at least somewhat, awake.

“You're a very wiggly serpent today, aren't you?” Aziraphale crooked his arm around Crowley's head to caress the demon's back. His touch must have been too light, causing a snort of laughter and even more energetic squirming. “Oh, yes, very wiggly.”

Another mumble and Crowley slid his leg over the angel's, so he was laying flush against a solid thigh. Suddenly inspired to roll his hips in a specific direction, and Aziraphale was reminded, unsubtly, that while his needs had been sated not long ago, Crowley's had not. For so _very_ long, it seemed, had not. He put the book down and turned toward his beloved, brushing a damp curl from his brow.

Still coalescing toward wakefulness, the pieces of Crowley's mind put themselves back together, and he gradually became aware of his actions. He was hard, flushed, and slowly grinding against Aziraphale's hip. The angel's arm was around him, and he was stroking Crowley's hair back as he let his beloved work himself out.   
  
“Ohh. My _angel_.” Crowley moaned, putting layers of meaning in the word. His angel. _His, _good and sweet and perfect, soft, strong, kind – _beautiful-warm-glowing-glory-warm-glow..._ Thrusting with each thought until his breath became rough and heavy.  
  
“That's lovely, my heart, but I need you to ease off now, alright? Just like that,” His tone gentle and apologetic as he pushed the demon onto his back, panting and aching. It was not lost on him that his lover had gotten this close without anxiety when Crowley remained in control of his own stimulation.

  
Aziraphale moved back, putting a foot or so of space between himself and the ardent demon, “Could you be a love and finish yourself for me?”  
  
“You want to watch?”

Ah, well, there was a question. “Yes. But I also want to be sure you're safe. I feel horrible about burning you, you know. But I'd rather not experience that. Or worse, if... ah.”  
  
“Oh. Right. Fuck,” Crowley nodded, shifting into a better position, he palmed his cock, already shiny-hard and starting to drip. There was so much wetness, he didn't remember leaking like this when he gave a toss by himself, but it felt right when he slicked the fluid down his shaft and stroked. He missed the heated press of flesh, but was surprised at how good it felt to be _seen_ and desired. To feel wanted for more than just the use of him. The stains left on him by lascivious human greed finally being ablated by Aziraphale's love.  
  
Crowley let himself relax into a familiar rhythm, a well-known pressure, a long practiced act, and yet this time, there was more. Scintillations, cascades of sensation, like tiny static shocks all through him, an involvement of the rest of his body that was new and exciting and sent him hurtling up and _up _so very quickly. He did not, could not last long. Eyes closed, thighs trembling, his hand a piston, he groaned and shuddered and striped his belly with warm spunk.  
  
“Beautiful.” Aziraphale's voice floated dreamily across.  
  
“You are.” Crowley grinned, still breathing heavily. He was about to snap and rid himself of the mess, but he was stopped by a quick and sure hand.  
  
“No, wait. I want to, er, if you don't mind. I want to try it.” He could have laughed at the look Crowley gave him, but he didn't, he simply smiled impishly and let his silver-lined eyes roam the spent body laying before him.

Stretching his arms over his head to present himself more completely, “Do whatever you like, angel.”

Aziraphale swiped two of his fingertips through Crowley's semen, rubbing the fluid between them with a look of concentration. The demon watching him with invested interest. Nothing. A smear of wetness applied to the inside of an angelic wrist, where the skin would be thinner. But still, nothing, no hint of burning or numbness, just a slight cool from evaporation. In for a penny, then. Aziraphale touched a spunk-wet finger to his tongue.  
  
Crowley's irises widened, both in manic curiosity and the intense eroticism of what he was watching.

The tiniest taste at first. Aziraphale blinked, several times, and then looked down at the demon, brows furrowed, before taking both fingertips into his mouth and sucking them clean. His expression was still unreadable, and Crowley gaped at him, feeling entirely like a twit.

“Did you do something, dear? Did you... miracle this, somehow?”

“No! I wouldn't-” Well actually, maybe he would. “I mean, I don't even know how!” Why? What was wrong with it? Fuck, Fuck! _Now_ he was anxious. _Now_ he was ruining what had been the best orgasm he could remember having had in centuries, and he frowned as the afterglow was chased away by jangling nerves.  
  
“I... Crowley, it's delicious!” Eyes wide with wonder, Aziraphale gathered another dollop and eagerly sucked on his fingers again. Swallowing and repeating, “It's delicious. Oh don't look at me like that! You didn't do-? But it is!” He looked like he wanted to bend down and lick Crowley clean. “It's a bit like, oh, stout maybe? Like Guinness and cream, my love.” He could swear it even tasted _alcoholic_, but that couldn't be right.   
  
“Have you tried it?”  
  
Crowley's face scrunched with confusion and doubt, blinking as bewilderedly as Aziraphale had, just moments before. “Well, yeah, sure. A few times.” It had never tasted like that to him. Maybe there was something of that salty-sweet beer quality, but it wasn't great. Certainly not _delicious_.

The angel was still cleaning him, greedily dragging his fingers across Crowley's belly for the last traces. “Oh, but you don't think so?” Obviously not, “More for me, then. Please? Soon?” Aziraphale was looking at him with plaintive want, like he were asking for a favor, another of those little acts of service through which they had for centuries whispered 'I love you' through the wall of fear and duty that had held them apart.  
  
Aziraphale was looking at him and Crowley felt himself respond, his cock rousing again. The darkness of the angel's eyes, fully lust-blown, and the way he licked his pink petal lips, glossing them. There was something feral about how Aziraphale moved, the way he stared. Without warning, the angel pounced, pinning Crowley to the bed, making the demon squeak. Suddenly it wasn't so nice, nor so gentle. Unlike when he'd first attempted to go down on Crowley, the angel now wasted no time on light kisses and kindling touches, making a determined beeline for the rigid male organ that promised another taste of infernal delight, and pulling the flustered demon's thighs apart in pursuit.  
  
But Crowley did not appreciate the abrupt roughness, the disregard. “Wait, Aziraphale! Yellow!” He pushed himself back as the angel continued to advance, fingers digging into his thighs. He swallowed and revised his position, “Red!” Aziraphale!”  
  
“What!?” The word came out harshly, far more so than he'd expected. The angel could feel himself in the grip of something ravenous and feral, and he held himself there, at that precipice. When Aziraphale finally managed to drag his gaze upward, he saw a frightened and angry demon glaring back at him, a look severe enough to break the thrall.  
  
Aziraphale shook himself. “Oh, oh no.” He swallowed thickly, “Oh. What am I doing? Oh, my dear!” He quickly released Crowley, certain his mate would have small bruises from the fierceness of his grip, and pushed himself back against the headboard. “I'm so, so sorry. I, oh my, what was I thinking? What came over me?”  
  
“I did.” Affirming that his anger wasn't really directed at Aziraphale, “I was created to incite lust, remember?” Crowley tucked his legs up and rolled over on his side, his back to the angel. Not shutting him out but needing to regain some ground.

“Oh. Oh, my gosh.” Aziraphale could still feel the urge, the want that was clawing up from his groin and into his chest. He forced it back, steadied himself. “Does, um, did that happen with the humans?”  
  
“Not like that.” He exhaled, “Not that intensely. I thought, if anything, it would affect you less. Angels being more susceptible to lust? Who came up with _that_ idea?” Again, he reflected on that snippet of conversation: Nearly every angel, given a corporation, eventually gives in...  
  
“I feel like an amateur.” Crowley murmured.  
  
Aziraphale sighed, “And I feel like a git.”  
  
The room felt stuffy all of a sudden, and the bed was a sweaty, rumpled mess. Crowley sighed, he wanted a shower, and oddly enough, he was hungry again.

The shower could wait, “Do you want to have lunch?”   
  
Of course. They had lunch.

-.*.-

  
Aziraphale washed up some dishes while Crowley put on a housecoat and his jeans and went downstairs to answer the doorbell. They'd ordered from an Indian restaurant only a couple blocks away, and the middle-aged man who delivered to the bookshop gave him an odd look when he opened the door, taking in his rumpled hair and bare feet, and Crowley paid him extra to go away without trying to chat him up.   
  
The appetite he'd acquired for food had faded, but the plastic takeaway boxes he unpacked onto the kitchenette counter still smelled remarkably appealing. Enough precious spice in that bag to buy a house only a few centuries ago, it wafted fragrant and intoxicating to fill the room. Aziraphale brought cutlery and plates to the little cafe table which, with two wire chairs, was the closest they had to a dining set. He was tempted to pair a nice dark beer with the rich food, but thinking about that specific flavor made him rule that out. He opened a crisp Chablis instead, poured two stemless glasses, and Crowley seemed pleased enough with the selection.  
  
Bread being one of the other things Crowley would usually bother to eat, and the pillowy, buttery naan being particularly alluring, he picked apart one of the warm rounds while Aziraphale enjoyed his curries and koftas.   
  
“Maybe this was a mistake.” Bread tore between restless fingers, crumbs fell onto the gauzy tablecloth.  
  
Aziraphale paused mid-bite, _Lunch? No, of course not lunch, don't be silly._ “It might be.” He agreed, “But we don't know that yet.”

Crowley chewed another tiny morsel, letting it vanish into his mouth, he didn't even need to swallow it. “We can be pretty sure. You hurt me, I drugged you. It's a wonder we haven't killed each other.”

Aziraphale slipped and his fork rang against his plate. “Well I know that. I do, Crowley. I was in a state about it all night. But you were right, before. We haven't.”  
  
“It's pretty funny, you know. If you think about it. Like someone's playing a prank on us.” He was quite clear about who he thought that _someone_ might be_._ But was it just another one of the Creator's baffling jokes, or was it a message? surprise to liven up their long years? A warning? Crowley didn't like that last possibility one bit.

“I was thinking, I could probably change the formula, you know, get rid of the holiness. I'm sure it wouldn't take a big miracle to make sure I only produce ordinary human fluids.” The angel mused, before taking another bite of curried lamb, the meat tender and infused with coconut and cardamom. His eyelashes fluttered in that same rapt enjoyment that had always magnetized Crowley, but now, knowing how it felt, knowing it was slipping away, the demon felt a pang of envy as well.  
  
For the moment he could feel it, just a little, and he dipped a torn triangle of bread into one of the boxes, bringing back a mouthful of sauce. He savored the delight of its flavor for as long as he could, but by the time he finished the naan, his stomach had turned in upon itself again, refusing to entertain the idea of eating a bite more.  
  
After clearing his palate with the wine, Crowley added, “I'll have to change mine, as well,”  
  
It was only a moment, just a glance, a falter, and Aziraphale felt his face heat with shame. “Oh, right, that would be for the best.”  
  
“Do you not want me to?”

Aziraphale grimaced with moral conflict, “Well. I should want you to change it. I don't want to constantly be on the edge of ravaging you for another dose. But the truth is, I've been thinking about it since I nearly did! I can't help it, I want it so much! It felt so, so good, I can't explain it.”   
  
The demon had some idea. Like a drug, a heroin high: all love and brightness, passing quick and explosive through the brain. And then it would fade, gone too soon, leaving in its wake a cold want to return to that elated condition. _I'd make an addict of him_, thought Crowley. “It'll wear off, we'll get through this, and I'll change it.”  
  
Finishing his plate, Aziraphale put lids back over their leftovers, “Do you know what it's supposed to be like? With human bodies?”  
  
A stuttered pause, “Ahm, mm, nnno, not exactly, but I don't think it has to be precise. Just less... you know, what happened.”

“May-be.” Aziraphale drew the word out like he wasn't sure if he wanted to press on, before doing so regardless, “You could keep the flavor?”

  
-.*.-  
  


Aziraphale brought in the newspapers that had been accumulating on his front step. He was actually surprised to learn how long it had been since the Tibetan Peace Garden. Well, no wonder he'd been hungry! He shook his head, quickly tucked the papers into a rack and went back upstairs. What's a week to an angel, anyway?   
  
What's a month?  
  
They'd made excellent progress on altering their respective formulas, and the trial runs were highly enjoyable; the challenge of finding new ways to bring each other off without overstepping Crowley's boundaries (which on Aziraphale's end usually meant sitting elsewhere and offering soft verbal encouragement,) and then the risky thrill of testing the end product.  
  
“It still burns a little, not much at all. About the same as the last two times.” Crowley said after their most recent round. He was seated at the foot of the bed, across from a wholly ruined-looking angel who lay sprawled in the bedroom armchair, thighs pale and perfect against the blue velour. Aziraphale's wings hung over the back of the chair and stretched across the floor, held up only by the tensile strength of his own flight feathers.  
  
The angel groaned, still faintly shivering from how elegantly Crowley had wrested another climax from him. His fourth of the day. “Well, bugger. I don't think I can get it any more mundane than that.”  
  
“You know what? It's okay. I like it, it's like a good tequila. Leave it.”  
  
“Ah, thank you, my dear.” The angel relaxed and sank further. “And I didn't want to bend you over the nearest solid object after the last time I tasted you, either. No, no. That's not quite true. I meant to say, not any more than I do already.”  
  
A dark brow arched, “You didn't mention _that _impulse to me before.”  
  
“I thought it would make you uncomfortable, so no, I didn't.” Perhaps there was still a hint of lust there, something in Crowley's sweat or his pheromones, that continued to affect Aziraphale, but he could no longer tell it apart from his own carnal proclivities. At least it was now subtle enough to ignore – a constant smoulder, rather than a blaze that threatened to claim and control him. And, he thought, that was exactly how it should be.

“Nn. Not sure how I feel. I've been wrong about a lot, M'probably wrong about this, too. But my stupid brain, my stupid chest, it's not letting go. Every time you hold me or touch me it's like being healed. But it also shows me a little more how fucked up I am.”  
  
Aziraphale held his tongue. It wasn't his place to tell Crowley he was wrong, moreover it wouldn't be true. And he wasn't going to insult the demon with mollifying lies, even if he might want to.   
  
“We've been here for so long, angel.”

_Yes, I'd noticed._ Standing up, Aziraphale tucked his wings back into the aether, the shape of his back smoothing over into unbroken skin. He stood at the bedroom window, nudging the drapes aside to look out. “Well, we could go for a walk.” But the demon waved the suggestion away.  
  
“I meant... Earth, the way we work at each other. We're so close, to having everything, to being… I don't know. Can't you feel it?” Crowley let himself sag, elbows on knees. He'd thought maybe after escaping Heaven and Hell, after taking each others' forms and cheating Azrael themself, he could have pushed through this, sealed the gap – but there it was again, a schism he could not cross. His sexual anxiety was just a symptom of it, pouring out of that yawning hole.

  
“We're so _close_, Aziraphale.”  
  
There is a practice in Japan of repairing cracked ceramics with gold. It's both beautiful and meaningful, and Aziraphale wished he could pour himself into Crowley and bolster him in the same way. The angel leaned onto his hands, palms flat on the windowsill. “I know. And I don't care how long it takes, I'll wait for you, as long as you waited for me, and an eternity after. As long as you want me to.”  
  
“I don't want you to.” Crowley said, factually, “I want you to have everything now, everything I promised you, right now. No more waiting.” His tone dared his angel to say something soft like 'you've given me so much already', like he'd expect from someone who read sappy books at a professional level.  
  
Aziraphale said nothing of the sort. Instead he was quiet for a long while, still facing the window with his hands flat on the sill. When he finally spoke, his voice was cracked, a vessel unmended, “I should have never let you think you were alone.”  
  
“Angel.”  
  
Turning back to face his demon, Aziraphale looked on the verge of tears. “I should never have lied to you. I swear - “  
  
Crowley stood, “Angel, don't.”

Aziraphale pressed on, livid. “I swear on, on... my signed collection of Sangorski and Suttcliffe Dickens! On my illuminated first edition _Saxo Grammaticus_!”  
  
Oh, now that was an oath. Crowley wrestled a smirk into submission and stepped to his angel's side, pressing his forehead to one of his companion's curved shoulders.  
  
“I give you my solemn word I will never ever again let you think you're alone. Look at me, Crowley. I'm serious.” The angel nudged his partner with an elbow.  
  
Crowley took a step back and composed himself, “So am I.”  
  
“You have me. I know you're working through something I don't quite understand, and maybe you want to keep holding onto it, but no matter what, you have me. We'll go through this together.”  
  
The way Crowley fixed him with his gaze would have been unsettling, before he'd learned to interpret it, to track emotion in the fluctuating dilation of demonic irises.

“I don't want to hold onto it anymore.” Crowley told him.

Aziraphale took his best friend by the hand, and led him back to the bed, to sit together in a splash of early sunlight. He offered to let Crowley lean against him, and was taken up on it, rubbing lightly over the invisible seams of his demon's back. True to his word, he waited.

Crowley breathed and leaned into the touch, there was no hurry. He assembled his thoughts, the things he wanted to say, the easiest way to tell the truth without cutting himself on the edges of it. He knew he had done terrible things, and good things, and … annoying things. And there was no way of guessing how all his deeds would add up in the end. Creatures like him were not judged as humans were. There were no deathbed confessions, no roads to redemption. Only glory or obliteration. And it didn't matter if it was Heaven or Hell you crossed, only whether or not you were useful.

-.*.-

“There was a time, in the really old days, when I was more or less a rock star in Hell,” Crowley began, and Aziraphale listened. The morning sun had grown full and fat in the sky, and ascended to hang directly above them, baking the roofs of nearby buildings into shimmering mirage.  
  
“Because of Eden, because of an apple, I was famous, envied, followed around by admirers hoping to lap up the prestige of knowing me. It was alright back then, Hell. It wasn't so bad as it is now. We tried to make it, you know, tolerable. All of us scared and hurt, we didn't actually know what a demon was yet. So we had our friendships, loyalties, we found comfort where we could. And after Eden, I was the man of the hour. Hour after hour after bloody hour.” He sipped from a glass he'd brought in from the kitchenette, along with the rest of the bottle and another glass for his companion. More of that cidery chablis, clean and easy to drink.

“I can imagine.” Aziraphale filled in, accepting the second wineglass.

Crowley lifted his drink, a sardonic toast, and downed the last mouthfuls before going on, “...Not everyone thought I was so great. I didn't. My boss certainly didn't.”

“That would be Lord Beelzebub.”  
  
“The one and only.” He refilled his glass, “When Hell started to get hairy, I bolted, I was gone. And I think that's when Lord Bee started to see me as a traitor. A deserter. They wanted to put me in my place, started giving me assignments I'm sure they expected me to fail. But I _didn't_. Yeah, I avoided as much work as I could, but if I took a job, I got it done. I was good at my work.” And Crowley smiled villainously, “And the part that made Lord Bee furious is that I did it both well and with the least possible real harm done. A master of loopholes, me.” He winked and Aziraphale smiled.  
  
“I knew it all along. Fomenting discord, I'm sure.”  
  
“Oh, I was absolutely doing that. Not even sorry. What Hell failed to understand is that discord and unrest could lead to misery and suffering sure – _orrr – _it could just as easily lead to an uprising against tyranny and oppression.” Crowley had mentioned much of this before, but it had been a while, and time had given Aziraphale a new perspective on the matter. “Heaven never wholly grasped that idea either, did they?”  
  
“I don't believe they did, dear.” Aziraphale sipped from his glass and didn't mind hearing some of this story again, it refreshed his memory and laid important groundwork. “Far too invested in writings and plans. And I should know, I was as bad as any of them.”

“At least you listened. You hadn't crammed your holy texts so far into your own ears you could read them from the inside.” The demon relished the amused smile that rewarded him, the twinkling glance.

“I think my 'Arrangement' with you made Bee even more furious with me.” Crowley went on, “I was still technically doing my job, _to the letter_, and yet accomplishing nothing. Which made me the happiest I'd ever been – short of when I got to see you.”

The angel blushed and put his hand in Crowley's, but did not interrupt.  
  
“Lord Bee wasn't the only one who disliked me by that point. You know. I've always been terrible. 'Slacker.' 'Good for nothing.' 'Thinks he's go great.'” He flipped his hair nonchalantly, dismissive, “I'm not stupid, I wanted _out_. But Bee made it their mission to make me miserable. They didn't care anymore if I failed, they just wanted to break me. So... they started sending me the kind of jobs they knew I'd hate.”

A pause, and Crowley added, “I never gave you any of those.”

Aziraphale nodded. He would never have assumed otherwise.

“Seduction work, swaying the opinions of psychopaths. Giants of industry, men of politcal power. Almost always men. The shapers of nations. The carvers of history. That's where you find real wickedness. I know you were there, too. Influencing those of better nature, trying to fight the tide.” He lifted Aziraphale's hand and kissed that gold signet. It had been forged in Heaven, and burned the demon's lips just a bit. “I loved you for it.”

“I wish I'd known.” But he couldn't have, not then. Even if Crowley had told him, it would have been futile, another straw of frustration that he'd have had to deny to bear.   
  
The demon shrugged and tilted to rest against his angelic lover again, filling his mouth with wine and letting it bleed sour and sharp down the back of his tongue.

“The thing about men like that, is that they don't love. And they don't care what you want. They use people. They used me, and when they were done with me, I whispered ideas into their ears as they slept. And then I hated myself. And I hated those men, and I hated Hell, and,” Crowley sighed, voice softening, “And then I was angry at myself for hating... so I let it go. It became just another thing that was done to me.”

Aziraphale watched Crowley as he spoke, the play of expressions over his features. “They hurt you.”

“Well. I mean, physically? Nah.” He scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant about it. ”They'd slap me, grab me, spit in my face. Call me nasty things. Whatever. That's nothing, that's affection, compared to what goes on in Hell. What really got to me was the disrespect, how they didn't give a shit if I liked it or not.” Indignation dripped from him, acid on his lips. Crowley was a demon, for fuck's sake – a primordial creation, a minister of Hell, the very author of Sin! Any mortal man should have felt honoured to touch such a being; they should have knelt down and _praised_ him for the opportunity.   
  
By comparison, the women he'd bedded while male-presenting always seemed afraid. They'd succumb begrudgingly, as if they loathed themselves for it – for accepting the gift of his attention, the pleasure of his body. And when he left them, he felt just as sullied as he had with the men.   
  
He told Aziraphale this, describing the look in their eyes, always a little distant, a little glazed. “I don't know where they went, but they weren't with me.”

Crowley pressed the cool side of the glass against his face. He felt overly warm, exposed and raw, and very much on the edge of something that ached and bent inside him.  
  
“Y'know, I could have just let it slide. Let it all slide right offa me. And then those clever bastards went and invented pornography.”

Aziraphale considered, “Mm, yes, they did.”   
  
Shifting and chuckling grimly, Crowley turned to bury his face in the curls at the back of Aziraphale's neck. Someone had made sure there was far more wine in that bottle than physics should have allowed for, and he was feeling it, having lost count of how many times he'd refilled his glass.   
  
“I'm not talking about _erotica_, angel. Not your books about deer tits and lesbians in meadows or whatever you like to read. And not paintings, neither, none of that nice artsy stuff. Real, hardcore _pornography_ is... stomach turning. Have you – no, of course you haven't, you'd never!”

“Deer tits...?” Ah, right, 'Song of Solomon', yes, he did like that one. “No, I suppose I haven't. What do you mean? It's just human lovemaking, isn't it?”  
  
Crowley sat up, and raised his wineglass to drink. Finding it empty again, he set the glass down in the middle of the bed, and leant fully into his angel's steadfast form. “Mmno. No love there. Just... people using each other like objects. It's violent, violating, and it keeps getting worse. Especially for women. it's nearly always women who get the ssshitty end of it,” He hissed angrily, “Ss'ridic-cul-mn, it's ssstupid. The men are always doing somethin' disgusssting to the women... And, you know, I saw that and I thought, well! That was how they treated me. That was how they _liked_ it. How it was... And, you know, I figured when I wasn't like that it must'a been a ter'ble shock. So I was a woman for 'em, so I could be... tender.”  
  
“You've always been a glorious, strong woman.” Aziraphale commented, somewhat less affected by the wine – which came of not drinking so much of it – but buzzed enough that everything seemed agreeable to him. He kissed the demon's forehead, “Whenever I saw you that way, it was like you commanded the room, you were a bright flame that drew every eye. And not only because you're gorgeous – and you are gorgeous – but because of who you are.”

Crowley hummed and basked in the compliment. “I missed seeing your feminine side when I was... ah, stress napping.” He'd later found out that his angel had taken quite well to bustiers and corsets while he'd been sleeping off one of their more heated spats.

Between 1830 and 1861, and then again from 1862 to1897, Crowley had slept, only leaving his bed once that Aziraphale knew of. Only once, to ask for something Aziraphale had, at the time, believed to have come of of the same wretched depression that had driven Crowley to hide from the world for almost seventy years. Crowley had sounded so disappointed in him, hurt and bitter, and the angel couldn't stop thinking of what his friend might do to himself, even without his help. The subtle tether between them, that minute signal that assured him that Crowley was alive and at peace, was ultimately what kept Aziraphale from complete despair.

Aziraphale had checked in on the torpid demon every so often, let himself in to dust, renew the wards he'd placed around his friend's home to keep him safe. It was in the angel's nature to protect what he cared about, and that, even when they were not speaking, had included Crowley. He hadn't breathed a word about it until over a century later. And when he finally divulged his guardianship, there had been a scrapbook of carefully preserved tintypes that he'd shared as well.  
  
“It never really suited me, I always managed to get into trouble. I don't know how you did it, bucking every silly convention they had without being chided or punished for it. You were daring and exciting, but I was only ever 'willful'.”  
  
“Fickle is the heart of man.” Crowley intoned soberly, despite being far from sober.

The angel nodded, “It does seem that way. Ah, Crowley, my dear one, my heart. You didn't deserve that. You know you didn't.”  
  
A muffled sound of indecision grunted into the ticklish place at the nape of Aziraphale's neck, along with a gust of alcohol-saturated breath. It translated somehow into the notion that it's easier to tell yourself something true than to make yourself believe it. But it was still gratifying to hear Aziraphale say it.  
  
A shiver ran up the back of the angel's neck from being nuzzled, “And I am never going to let you feel like _that_ again, either.”

“I know you'll try,” Crowley said, turning his head just enough to say it, “Please forgive me, angel.”  
  
Rubbing the upper edge of the demon's ear, Aziraphale huffed, “I shan't.” Again and again, he'd refused to forgive imagined transgressions, to give weight to any fantasy that there'd been a wrong done when there had not. “Why should I?”

And, again, Crowley was frustrated by Aziraphale's steadfast reasonableness. “Because I'm weak. I run an' I hide an' I let myself get so dirty. I'm filthy, Aziraphale, I'm _filthy_.” Everything he owned, every garment he wore, every space he kept was pristine, antiseptic, never clean enough; a testament to futility.  
  
Aziraphale breathed out, calm. He was used to Crowley, how he'd often get maudlin like this after a couple bottles. He tipped the demon's chin up to meet his (granted, rather bleary) gaze. “I don't mind getting a little dirty if it's with you, dear.”

Crowley's eyes narrowed, he knew he was being dramatic, but that was _his_ indulgence, he was entitled to it. He snorted and scowled and hung off of his angel's shoulders like a very bony and drunken shawl. “Could you forgive me anyway? Summa th' guys I seduced _did_ do pretty hor'ble things after. And... annnd. I might'a helped 'em on to an early reward. Just a li'l nudge. Lil... tiny... they had it coming.”  
  
“Absolutely.” Something about just retribution always ignited a heat in Aziraphale, and he all but explicitly encouraged it. 'Justice matters', he'd say, whispering it like a demon might whisper temptation. Urging the righteous to action, bolstering the valiant. It took him a long, embarrassing amount of time to recognize how the only significant difference between his actions and Crowley's was that the people the demon encouraged to fight wore dirtier clothes. He felt a swell of pride for the clever, wicked, and merciful creature that completed him. “I forgive you for being a silly old thing who thinks I'm going to disapprove of him for any of that.”

The demon made a noise, the kind of wordless grunt that tended to precede him falling asleep, and Aziraphale eased his mate down, tucking a duvet around him.

“Thank you for trusting me.” He said, not sure if he was being heard anymore, “I love you.”  
  
“M'a fuckup.”  
  
“Yes, dear. Go to sleep.” The idea took, and he touched the unconscious demon's temple, feather-light, to insure his beloved against what would have otherwise become a roaring hangover. Crowley would be out for a while, and Aziraphale thought he might just go downstairs and read 'Song of Solomon' again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What d'you say that we go down together  
And try to find out all the answers?  
What d'you say that we go down together  
And try to find out what we missed?  
I will drop everything  
You'd better believe it.  
'Cause I mean it  
And I know we can last  
If we can forget  
About the past and start again  
Again
> 
> Never destroy us 
> 
> -The Dears.
> 
> More angst and talking things out, but it ends with a sweet moment, a flashback to the past, and an entirely new experience.

-.*.-

5

It had just rung one in the afternoon. Crowley was still asleep, seeming deeply in it, and Aziraphale needed to get out of the shop. It had been well over a week since he'd set foot outside, and he blinked at the bright sunlight. He thought he'd take another look at the park around the Peace Garden, and took a taxi across the river. Finding the space pleasant, with broad expanses of lawn and mature trees, but largely unimpressive otherwise, Aziraphale let himself roam in both body and thought as he walked the grounds around the old war museum.  
  
The problem - he thought, while leisurely strolling a sun-dappled path - was that Crowley's sexual performance was just that. A performance. His partner was doing what he thought Aziraphale would like, falling back on old habits of pleasing and giving. Aziraphale chafed at the thought that he in any way were being compared to one of Crowley's loathsome seduction jobs: the cruel work that had wounded his beloved and left him fractured still. He hated the very idea that Crowley might be reliving a single moment of that in obliging him.  
  
For all their intimacy, Crowley still wouldn't allow Aziraphale to touch him in any sexual context. He'd back away, turn inward, shift their focus to the angel's fulfillment. The demon would use his mouth and hands and the deep satiny roll of his voice. Even when he took himself in hand, Crowley would give Aziraphale this look, a stiffness in the jaw, a specific tilt of the pelvis. _This too is for you_, his body wrote in the lines of his posture, _I know you like to watch, see me, let me do this for you_.  
  
And then Crowley would slide back into the armor of his clothing, the protective layer that permitted him to ask for affection. To be held and kissed, to bask eagerly in the angel's touch. But only here, the throat, the hair, the hands. Never the hips, never the vulnerable belly or thighs.

If that had actually been how Crowley wanted things to stay between them, that was how Aziraphale would have kept them. But not when he could sense the tension, the gut-clench of want and fear, the tremble in the demon's ophic spine.

But how could he help? What right had he to try? Crowley was his own being, and not Aziraphale's to fix. Hands clasped behind his back as he walked, the angel noted he'd passed the twin cannons in front of the museum yet again, and changed course to go inside. He had no love for war, of course, but he had memories of it.

The building was far more modern inside than out, with an open, stark layout and small airplanes – Spitfires – slung from the ceiling. It was strange to see them in this context, Aziraphale though, having witnessed them in flight. But he paced the museum, following the flow of tourists and schoolchildren, both of which became far better behaved around him. He paused to read the placards beside each bomb-twisted mass of metal, each defused explosive, but the information came off as stale, lifeless, when one has seen the truth behind it. He thought about the airplanes, restored, repainted, as bright and sleek as when they'd been riveted together.

Crowley had loved Spitfires when he'd first seen them in action, their agility and simple grace. Such craft were as close as humans had gotten to winged flight, the ability to dance on air. He wondered if the demon came in here, too, to look at them when he visited the garden. It seemed likely, Aziraphale thought. Stopping by the gift shop, he purchased a little tin model of the same aircraft, and left the museum to walk home.

Along the way, he managed to acquire a box of raspberry-chocolate tartelettes, a Pendleton blanket ('Crossroads'), and a basket of Creeping Phlox to go in the window. He'd purchased a few more things than that, but in the spirit of not using miracles to help people, he was using money instead. His own, of course – not that Crowley would mind (should he even notice,) if Aziraphale dipped into the demon's extensive funds – but there was pride in it being out of his own pocket. Giving of himself.  
  
And there was the bone of it. Giving.  
  
It was an odd form of selfishness, the refusal to take, the forcing of imbalance into their relationship. This was how Crowley operated, how he'd accepted his role. For aeons he'd carved away at himself to offer his worth to Aziraphale. What good is a demon who cannot deliver on his promises, after all? He'd whispered oaths, half a million nights' worth, of what he'd give, if only... if only. And now he seemed compelled to make good on all that. Every word of it.  
  
But if one refuses to accept what's offered in return, it leaves no room for upsetting questions about worthiness or gratitude or what one owes in the tallying. In Hell, everything was owed. Every debt was forever. Aziraphale knew this, he knew a lot of things, once upon a time. More recently though, as of a few years ago, he'd been feeling simple and childish against the ever-spreading empty canvas of his ignorance.  
  
After he'd returned to the shop, hung the flower basket, spread the blanket out over the downstairs settee, and put on a pot of coffee, Aziraphale settled in for a cup with his favored company. As Crowley was now awake and seated across from him.

Aziraphale held the cooling mug, as he always did, between both hands, picking over his words with the same delicacy as his counterpart was using in nibbling tiny bites of chocolate filling from the tip of his spoon.

“Crowley.” The angel began, “I'm worried.” He could see the demon's gaze flick toward him behind dark lenses worn against the bright, summery afternoon, rather than for any need to hide.

“I am concerned,” He tried again, “That you're doing too much to make me happy.”

Putting the spoon down, Crowley took a sip of coffee before countering, “I disagree.”

The blond angel frowned, the simple denial had been tossed at him in a tone both defensive and dismissive, making light of what was bothering him. But wasn't that just like the demon? Deflection and denial whenever he couldn't hold the throat of a problem under the his foot.  
  
“You're being _unfair_, Crowley.” Aziraphale complained, prodding at a sore spot to punctuate his feelings.

As expected, the demon hackled and sputtered and pulled himself upright in his chair, “Unfair!? I do everything to make you happy, angel! It's all I've ever wanted to do. What's wrong with that?”

What, indeed? The words were difficult to form, “But what if I want to make you happy, too?”  
  
“You do! Don't ever question that.” Crowley stood up, hands half-thrust into what barely counted as pockets, “Giving you what you want _is_ what makes me happy. Don't take that away from me. Otherwise, otherwise... what use am I?”  
  
“Well that's exactly it,” Aziraphale sighed, “I don't want you to be of _use_ to me. I don't want to use you.” He paused, watching Crowley pace, _Ah, my dear, my Orpheus, my Thisbe, must you always be in mourning?_ “I want to please you just as much, and you won't allow it. And it hurts to see how you look at me in those moments. I won't be the arbiter of your worth, my love.”

Crowley took his glasses off, held them between the fingertips of both hands. “Aziraphale. Look.” His face lined, thought and apprehension in between the creases of his mouth, patience in the furrows of his brow. “I need this. I need time.” This was not concession, it was just the application of brakes on what would otherwise become an unwinnable argument. The angel had hurt him, continued to hurt him, in his assumptions and impatience. For all their ethereal dances came with a purity of knowledge, awareness, but not understanding.  
  
He did not say 'Because I need you to see how wrong you've been.' or 'Because I need you to know what one-sided devotion feels like'. He was barely cognizant of those thoughts within himself, they had only recently arrived, rising up from the silt of his long past like a coin in a riverbed. He was still searching these waters for missing pieces, after all.

Instead he was kind, and he told Aziraphale, “I know you're frustrated with me. I've let you in halfway, I get it. Please, please trust me.”

Again, the angel told himself, _I can wait, I will wait._ But oh, ohhh! How he hated waiting.

Aziraphale nodded, fervent with the hope of truth, “I do.”

  
  


-.*.-

Crowley had returned to his flat, to the soothing emptiness, to simple shapes and dim light easy on a tired brain. He'd made some lame excuse about how he had to water the plants – Well, actually no, he hadn't: they were automatically provided with the perfect allotment of water and nutrients, calculated to the drop – He needed to yell at them, then. Excise his own undulled grief through vicious projection, as if the plants had been the ones to have failed. There had never been a browned leaf in Eden.  
  
Except that wasn't right, either. He gave his weeping fig a half-hearted scolding and, finding it unsatisfying, walked away with a lecture on powdery mildew left unfinished. What was it, then?  
  
Alright. Pause the tape. Now, imagine a plant,_ ficus benjamina_, let's say – a seedling full of potential. You made sure it had light, and water, and nutritious soil, everything it needed, but you'd planted it in a glass box. At first, the ficus grew freely, spreading itself out until it reached the limits of its space. And then what? It kept growing, filling up its boundaries, pressing itself against the glass, pushing, seeking escape. In time, the confinement became a form of support, the plant now dependent upon the walls of its box to keep it upright. It had never needed to form a thick trunk, a strong basis from which to grow, the box being all it had ever known. So then, one day, something happened. The glass was shattered. The ficus, never having learned to support its own weight, could only collapse, tearing itself apart as it fell.  
  
Presently, Crowley was tearing himself apart, flailing for a handhold, because he didn't know how to live without having structure imposed upon him. Angels aren't meant to have free will, they're not made for it. Even fallen ones need a maxim to follow.  
  
He also knew Aziraphale must have gone through something similar, and that it was largely his fault; but at least the angel had the surety of moral righteousness, even if he were forging his own notions of morality of late. Aziraphale had grace and a confidence that Crowley had lost, that had been torn out so long ago that he couldn't recall what it had felt like.  
  
A loud calamity of sound, painfully jarring, echoed in the dark space, crashing through the demon's introspection. The ficus Crowley had been reprimanding lay sprawled on the floor like a murder victim, awash in its own soil. Fortunately the pot itself was bronze, and though it rang like a bell on striking the floor, it was unbroken. The delicate little tree had fallen because, in his distraction, Crowley hadn't put it back squarely on its stand. Like himself, it had lost its footing, come unbalanced, and in a rare gesture, he apologized to it. Speaking softly, tenderly tipping the ficus back into its home, returning its soil, replacing the plastic line that fed it.  
  
“I'm sorry I can't be better,” He told it. Glancing up at the others, his tone hardening into a growl, “I'm never going to be better. Don't you lot think I'm ever going to be anything good. You know what I am.”

Aziraphale had metaphorically bound him upright like a recalcitrant tomato vine, and Crowley had ever since tried to offer the best fruit he could bear. How does one simply stop a habit like that? To find the strength to stop carrying these burdens and stand tall on your own? How long does it take for love to dissolve scar?

He wanted Aziraphale to touch him, in every way the angel desired. He wanted to be held down, pushed, pinned, and pleasured. The thought of it, the fantasy, was branded into him now, deliriously alluring, terrifying. Crowley thought of each touch that had made him shrink and turn away, ashamed and angry, old wounds flaring back into livid heat across his cheekbones, behind his eyes.

How he'd wished it could have been easier, that he'd be revived by a kiss, healed by a touch, as angels do with a broken bone. Everything renewed and filled with life and worth if he just gave in a little more. Gave away a little more. That would be romantic, the apt ending to a fairy tale. But real people are more complicated than that, and their hearts are slow to get the memo when the story has changed.

Alcohol called out, the promise of succor and sleep. And that would be so easy, wouldn't it? To fade away again, give it a decade or two to blow over. So easy. Yet, somewhere in Crowley's mind the words echoed: 'Be better.' He denied them, again: never, impossible. But perhaps... he could pretend. Yes, for love's sake, he could pretend.

The weather was nice, the tilting point of spring into summer. Getting out of the city sounded like a fantastic idea, somewhere further out than he usually went. Crowley thought he might pay a visit to the monastery he'd been sending money to since they'd let him use it for his film (featuring certain Archangels.) A demon's promises are always kept, and he had a fondness for the monks after all, he appreciated their serene and unpretentious reflection of the world. Their uncomplicated lives.

It addition, it was a nice drive to get out there, and it'd do the car good to get out and open up her engine. He pocketed his mobile, keys, and gleefully left more than one police officer dazedly wondering where the strangely fast and agile antique car they'd been chasing had gone.

-.*.-

The little die-cast airplane sat on the table next to the settee, and Aziraphale eyed it over a cup of light, floral Oolong. He admired the model's fine details: hand-painted targets on its wings, tiny rivets along its fuselage. With a little more imagination he could have willed it to churn its miniature, hypothetical engine and buzz into the air, but he wasn't quite there yet. Perhaps it would fly when Crowley noticed it, soar between the stacks, lighting them up with the muzzle-flare of insubstantial bullets.  
  
Crowley had only been gone a couple of days, but after having spent the last two weeks together, the shop felt empty with only the angel occupying it. Even the cluttered coziness seemed too open and still, and Aziraphale felt small and useless in the middle of it. He had to agree though, a break would probably do them good, refresh the mind and body. He could take the opportunity to spring clean while it was still spring – open the windows and dust, enjoy the slow balm of doing chores the human way. It made it easier to think, to wander. But wandering in a troubled mind only finds difficult thoughts.

_I do trust him_, came an unbidden inner voice, _I think I do. I want to._ Aziraphale pressed his lips against his teeth and stood on tiptoes to drag the feather-duster along the top of a shelf. He didn't clean the shop often, the dust helped to discourage shoppers, but he hadn't opened it in so long, it was becoming oppressive, tomb-like.

_Of course I should trust him. Stop being foolish. _Nearly six thousand years they'd known each other, and Crowley had always been honest. Aziraphale would ask, 'What are you doing here?' And Crowley would tell him without hesitation. Almost an invitation: Please thwart me, please stop this.

_But should he trust me?_ Once upon a time he would have thought that a pointless question; Aziraphale was an angel. But could angels be trusted? He knew as well as anyone that they could lie, cheat, destroy and betray. The answer was an unambiguous _No._

  
_I've lied to Crowley, too. Quite a lot. _The inner voice added,  
  
For his own good!

_I had nothing to lose by telling the truth, and I still lied._  
  
A necessary sin. No, not a sin at all, a mercy. He couldn't plant false hope, much less let it grow. Of course he had to lie! Omit, twist just enough to keep things going smoothly. When they had been going smoothly.  
  
He'd retraced this specific self-polemic more than once, waded through mires of guilt over letting Crowley think he was unwanted, unneeded, that he was alone in the world. Aziraphale had never been truly alone, he'd always had a strained but firm relationship with Heaven... until recently. Now marked an apostate, the angel was starting to get a taste of Celestial rejection, and he didn't care for it at all.  
  
And every previous time he'd told himself off for his dishonesty, he'd somehow, through absurd leaps of logic, managed to convince himself it was the moral choice; the truth would be far too cruel.

Standing silent in the middle of his shop, duster in hand, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, and feeling a loneliness in his gut that he wasn't used to and disliked intensely, he told himself, finally, _'The truth is just the truth._ I _was cruel.'_

The angel's facade of benevolent deceit, already weak, began to shake and fracture. Aziraphale had held it in place since he and Crowley had formally agreed to cooperate toward their mutual interests, an attempt to keep things civil and professional between them. But it was a door he couldn't keep fully shut no matter how many times he tried to board it up. There was always a gap, a crack that let the light get in.  
  
And Crowley would find it, unfailingly, and they'd smile and laugh and know each other just a little bit.

Aziraphale needed to sit down, wandering into the back room and settling in his armchair across from the uncomfortably vacant settee. The cracks were multiplying, becoming holes, and Aziraphale found himself recalling every time he'd said something sharp and hurtful to keep Crowley at a distance, every time he'd seen the hurt look on the demon's face, those times when couldn't see Crowley's eyes, but knew full well what he'd done.  
  
Was it any wonder Crowley had pulled away from him? Was there any mystery left in that cornered-animal flinch? The way he'd struggled to give as much as he could, the desperation of it, the bitter pill of finding out after so long, that neither would the pain salve, nor the break mend as he'd dreamed it would.  
  
_It's a wonder he still loves me. _The voice informed him, _I haven't done much to deserve it._

No, but he could. Crowley did still love him, and they had time now.

Should he call? It had only been two days, or was it three? Not long at all. But he missed Crowley. He would call. _No, no don't. Not yet. What if he needs more time? What if he's angry? I'd be angry with me._

It would be another day before he lifted the phone's handset from its cradle, dialed the numbers. He counted five rings and then the subtle click over to voicemail. Aziraphale distrusted the machine, so he hung up, waited, and dialed again. Five rings, click.

Well, that could mean anything, really. Crowley didn't just sit around mouldering in his apartment when he wasn't in Aziraphale's sight, he would be out _doing things_ at this time of day. The angel opened up an old brocade-bound address book and found the entry for Crowley's mobile. He still preferred a land line, but had to admit that modern telephones, for all their overwrought complexity, seemed very useful.  
  
An opinion tested when there was still no answer, and Aziraphale ceded when the mobile message system picked up the call. “Dear, it's me, I love you very much. Please call me back. As soon as you get this, alright? Call me back, I'll be right here in the shop. I love you.” Repeating the last words like a prayer, like a means of pressing them into reality, a typewriter striking letters onto paper.

A prayer, unlike most, soon answered. The phone began to ring almost as soon as he'd settled back in his chair, a melodious and welcome trill that vibrated into Aziraphale's hand as he launched himself back across the desk to yank the handset against his ear. “Good afternoon, A.Z. Fell and Company,” He began, managing a chipper shopfront tone of voice.  
  
“Angel?”  
  
“Oh!” Aziraphale calmed immediately, his throat loosened and he breathed in relief, “Crowley.” He exhaled the name in that fond way he often did without being aware of it.

The voice on the other side sounded buffeted and tinny, “Sorry I didn't pick up. The monks don't like cell phones inside the temple. I'm at the Woking monastery, you remember?”

“The monastery? What are you up to over there? Buddhist monks don't seem like your usual target.”

A muffled laugh, “Purely social, love. I've just been relaxing, thought it'd be nice to get out of the city and clear my head. The monks are good company, you'd like them. Funny thing, they twigged on right away what kind of entity I am, offered me tea without batting an eye.”  
  
Well, that was novel. “Oh, really?”  
  
“Biscuits, too. Shortbreads and those crumbly ones with the jam,” Crowley teased, “So, is everything alright then? You sounded antsy in your message.”  
  
Here, Aziraphale fought the tremor in his tongue, tangling his fingers in the spiral phone-cord, “Ohh, it's only, just, I miss you. Will you be coming back soon?”  
  
Crowley hummed, a thin buzz over the line, “I don't know...”  
  
“Oh,” His tone subdued. “Well,”

“You could come down here, if you like.”  
  
Could he, though? Without taking advantage of the demon's acquiescent habits? “Only if you like.” He replied firmly, “If you need more time, I'm fine right here. I really am.”  
  
The line was static and wind for a number of seconds. More than three and less than ten. And somewhere in between, Crowley said, “I would like.” A shorter pause between that and, “I've been thinking, and I really think we need to talk.”

“I'll call a taxi, I'll be there before nightfall.”  
  
“Perfect. Oh, and angel, wear something light. Ta.”

The line clicked, and the angel smiled. Crowley sounded hopeful and calm, almost giddy, if one could apply such a notion to the usually staid demon. The way he'd said 'Talk', though, had held neither fear nor anger. There was something important waiting, a poignant gift to be opened, when Aziraphale arrived to do so.

-.*.-

The trip took slightly more than an hour, and the sun had started to stain the horizon in pink and gold when Aziraphale's taxi pulled up in front of the monastery. That familiar red-walled temple now surrounded by fading cherry blossoms and dogwood. He paid his driver and slung a small bag over his shoulder, looking past the entryway for any sign of Crowley. At the door of the temple, he could still see the white mark where the Archangel Michael had touched one of the painted pillars. It had not been covered up yet, or perhaps it could not be. Three fine streaks of divinity on a doorway consecrated to no God.

“Aziraphale!”  
  
And oh, there he was. Dressed in linen, loose slacks, a flowing tunic, all in charcoal with silver thread woven here and there, his hair tied back at the nape of his graceful neck, curls of it glowing ember-like with the sun's lazing rays behind him. Bare-faced and barefoot, walking lightly over the petal-strewn grass from somewhere behind the temple, Crowley was smiling.

Aziraphale hoped his choice of outfit was suitable enough: brown muslin drawstring trousers and a white work shirt buttoned nearly the entire way up. He felt just a bit naked in so few layers, what with how the air flowed through the thin fabrics to his skin, but the warmth of the evening reminded him of nightfall in the desert, before the chill set in.

A hand was offered and taken, and Crowley wordlessly led his angel back with him, retracing his steps to the lush, sunset-licked garden where he'd been spending his time the last few days.

Striking an odd yet fitting note between the wild and the civilized, the beds had been planted with care, tended with love, yet each green thing had been groomed to the shape it chose for itself, rather than to the whims of its caretaker. There were a number of humans in the garden, monks working and meditating, a few other visitors taking in the tranquil dusk.

They took a bench next to a shallow reflecting pool to watch the sun continue to effuse in vivid colour as it sank into slumber. They waited in silence until the sky had shaded into deepest blue and vibrant stars, and the monks retired to their modest beds.  
  
Alone, they could speak.  
  
“I'm glad you decided to come see this.” Crowley began.

“It's lovely here.” Aziraphale commented. “I said I would.”

“I know.” He left the rest to easy intuition.

Aziraphale hummed acknowledgment. He let the quiet sit between them, warm and heavy, before pushing it out of the way with a pointed statement, “I've hardly been fair, have I?”

Crowley glanced sidelong at his angel, their faces illuminated only by the little path lanterns around the bench. He thought about replying to that, his options, and decided he was probably not meant to say anything.  
  
Wringing his stout fingers, the angel persisted, “I only mean, I've been selfish, and stubborn, and inconsiderate, and... And I don't know why you continue to put up with it.”  
  
A throaty noise from the redhead, “You have been. But you forget, I can sense pain. I know when someone is hurting, or scared, or lying to me.”

The movement of celestial hands stilled. “You – Of course you would.” The chagrin in his words branded itself across his cheeks, and Aziraphale turned slightly away. “I am sorry.”

Crowley laughed, his voice quieted only to keep the peace of the garden. “I know that. I was waiting for you to figure it out. Don't be daft, pet, I've always known why you do it. And I'm proud of you. Isn't that funny? I helped you get here, and I'm proud. My greatest achievement.”  
  
Aziraphale grumbled, not feeling very proud himself. “Greater than Sagittarius?”  
  
Another hushed laugh,, “Oh, much.”  
  
“It doesn't feel great.” The angel admitted, but personal revelations rarely do.

The demon murmured, crossing his legs knee over knee, arms stretching like ivy across the back of the bench. “Well, I expect that'll pass. Let me help, angel.” He tilted his head, “I forgive you.”

“Again.” A wistful sound.  
  
“Again.” Crowley reached down, and raising both his hands with one of his angel's wrapped within, he kissed Aziraphale's pink knuckles, “Always again, because I know you. Can you forgive me again?”  
  
The angel paused, “Of course I do!” He squared his shoulders, strong and sturdy, ready to carry the world. “You needn't even ask.”

And the demon closed his eyes and shook his head, leaning forward and pressing the palm of Aziraphale's hand to his cheek. “Oh sweet, fucking Sheol, angel. When did we become so _human_?”

Beats ticked by, Aziraphale could feel the pulse in Crowley's jaw, and he remembered Sheol. There was something symbolic there, pointed. In how all human souls were called there, regardless of how righteous, how devout, or how sinful they had been in life. All of the dead awaited judgment exactly the same. The very judgment he had helped further delay.  
  
“I think it was when we started to live for ourselves, make our own choices.”

That struck Crowley as funny. Fifteen hundred years, then, give or take. Or maybe closer to three thousand. He wasn't sure when he'd taken that step, put their relationship first. But he had always known it would take longer for an angel to loose themselves from strings that had been quickly cut for a demon.  
  
He felt Aziraphale straighten his posture, and Crowley lowered their held hands to the bench between them.

“You wanted to talk about something in particular,” the angel said, gently interrupting a stretching moment of silence. “What was it?”

“Oh.” The demon stalled, “That.” He didn't sound unhappy to be reminded, simply hesitant, as if he needed tact to tread this part of his river. “The thing. Red lights. Been thinking about that.”

Sensing the edge of something large and weighty on Crowley's mind, the angel remained quiet, mentally prepared himself to carry it, should he need to. He tapped lightly at the demon's wrist, encouraging him.

“Fine, yes. Out with it. Bandage, tear it off.” This laugh is louder, sourer, “There's no good way to say it. I'm afraid. I'm bloody terrified you're going to want to fuck me, and I'll let you, because bless me if I can say no to you. And if you do, I'm going to wind up thinking about all the times I've been fucked before and _hated_ it. And I'll wind up hating it again, and then I'll start resenting you because I'll have this messed-up association in my head. What am I supposed to do about that, angel? You tell me, you're the one who heals, help me.”

Preparation didn't help much, Aziraphale could only stare, feeling as if he were staggering and stumbling in place. It's not like he didn't suspect, hadn't feared that very thing. “I don't know.” He said, voice as small as he felt.  
  
“Shit. I was hoping you would. I'm sick of feeling like this. Cigarette?” He had pulled a small paper box and a lighter from somewhere in his slouching garments.  
  
“You're smoking again?”

“Not often. They're menthol.” A shake of the packet.  
  
Aziraphale nodded, it seemed fitting. And a little bit disrespectful of the monastery, which was also fitting for Crowley. “Alright, I'll have one.” And he leaned in to light it against the demon's fingers.

There was time to enjoy the fragrant, sweet-rank smoke, to blow rings at the moon and smile. Aziraphale collected their ashes in his palm, without magic to transport the remains out of the garden, he had to get up and walk them to a trash receptacle. How the garden's designers ever found a garbage can that worked in the middle of a zen garden was indeed a wonder.  
  
On returning to the bench, to Crowley's side, a notion had sprouted in the angel's mind.

“Had it occurred to you, at all, that you might want to fuck _me_?” This wasn't the notion, exactly, but he'd get to that.

Crowley's irises narrowed, then widened, “Not really. Sex with women was never very good for me either. I always felt like I was betraying them somehow. And I often was. Not to mention the whole deal, the complication of off- er. Well. Offspring.”

Wait, wait. _Wait!_ “Crowley?”  
  
“It was work, I was doing my job...”

Aziraphale's voice snapped over the water, “Crowley!”  
  
The demon groaned, “What, angel?!”

“Do you mean to tell me that you have children? _You_.”  
  
Bending forward to drop his head into his hands, the demon made a high-pitched, vexed sound. Not a whine, nearly, but not. “No, of course I don't have children. I'd have to be a father. And I'm nobody's father, I promise you. I just... might have caused... some women to become pregnant. By having sex with them.”

“That's how you have children, usually. Oh good lord, are they...?”  
  
“Oh, no, no, don't worry. Completely human. Not a trace of me in them. That sort of thing gets you a century-long vacation in the boiling pit. Absolutely not. I told you. I'm nobody's father. It was my job to stir up trouble, sew discord. Agent of chaos, here.”  
  
“Retired, I hope.” The idea of Crowley having sired children didn't sit too well, but it illustrated well how much they still had to catch up on.  
  
Aziraphale could smell a trace of menthol and tobacco clinging to him, and he thought about what they could and could not share through supernatural means. Something was prickling at him about how he'd temporarily felt some of his demon's urges after they'd had those few, intense minutes of neural feedback. The way he'd felt watching Crowley eat, the impulsiveness. It hadn't lasted long, but he could still detect it, faintly, like the hint of cigarette still on his skin.

“You could have me as I am now. I think I'd like having you mount me.”  
  
“Mount.” the other repeated, as if speaking an entirely new language, “Aziraphale. For, gah- you think? You don't know?”

The angel shrugged, tilting his head closer, “Well I've only tried it a little.”

Shock, perhaps glee there, “Angel!”  
  
“Shush, dear. There's more.” Patting Crowley's thigh, Aziraphale continued, “I thought you could have me this way, and I would link up with you again, so you'd experience it as I do.”  
  
“Oh...” Curious, and then, having thought about it, “Ohh fuck, mmh, _Oh_.” Aziraphale couldn't see how wide those reptile irises were in the dark, but he could picture it, hints of their gape in the rough terrain of Crowley's voice. But arousal was not consent.  
  
“Do you think you'd enjoy that? I wouldn't touch you at all, if you'd prefer, I wouldn't even look.” He'd been resting his hand lightly on Crowley's thigh, and began to rub in small circles over the fabric, until the demon shivered and shifted uncomfortably. Aziraphale remembered himself and stopped, returning his hand to his own lap.

“You'd be entirely in control, even when we connect.” There was no hint of begging, no demand, simply an offer. A way across the water.

Sometimes the smallest words can be the most frightening, the most world-changing.

“Yes.”

Crowley took the lead, rising and tugging at his mate's hand to follow. Aziraphale eagerly did so, letting himself be drawn through the darkened trees, the thickening branches soon sealing out the stars so completely that the angel couldn't see ahead. But his demon seemed sure in his course.

Soon the air grew perfumed, heady with lavender and lily, sweet-william and peony. Memory stirred in Aziraphale, in the lightless caress of leaves, the warm stillness and the delirious scent. They emerged into a small clearing, moonlight dappling the earth's soft coverlet of moss and grasses, and he nearly had it when Crowley pulled him close and kissed him.

The moon shifted, somewhere between before and after that kiss. “Now, please?” _Before my will falters, before the moment passes and I can't do this. You are the soft place on my belly, I am weak when it's you._  
  
The angel nodded, and let himself be laid down in the green, arms around Crowley's shoulders. The demon sank down with him, and continued to travel Aziraphale's body, retracing every kiss he'd placed before. Crowley tugged appetently at the angel's shirt-buttons, the tie of his trousers, and Aziraphale held his tongue. He would not speak until he had to, not a word. He luxuriated in being taken from, being the one to yield.  
  
To be in control, not to want it, but to need it, lent a renewed sense of freedom, and Crowley held onto it perhaps a little too hard. He might have rushed, may have chafed the underside of a knee with the rough yank of cotton, may have bruised a hip with his haste. But he had to keep going; fast, _faster. _ No chance to let himself think, no room for doubt. Just this, just... Pull and push, roll over, yes, like that. Aziraphale, body bent, hands digging into the moss, legs spread. Crowley tugged his clothes off, a miracle to loosen them, tossed them aside. He knelt there as if in worship, his human heart clamoring, hummingbird-fast.  
  
_No, no, slow down!_ Crowley shook, hands curled into fists at his thighs._ Breathe. Don't panic. _There was a subtle rustle as Aziraphale shifted. His angel was waiting for him. _Do something, say something... just not – _

“I haven't done this before.”

Here, a response was needed, “Don't worry. I know you'll be wonderful, no matter what, It'll be perfect.” Because it must be, because he was _sure_ it would be. He felt Crowley touching him, and let his head sink down onto his arms, eyes closed, making himself pliant. Soon there was a spit-wet pressure against the opening he'd rarely used for anything, pleasure or otherwise, and he exhaled at its insistence. Crowley was pushing a few shades too quick for comfort, and Aziraphale grunted and shifted until those moistened digits found a better rhythm. Circling, dipping, almost teasing until the angel pushed back and then, ooh, that was nice, the slight stretch where they'd breached.

Crowley could feel Aziraphale relax when he hit the right tempo. Ah, that's how that works, yes, he could remember this. But not so rough, not so fast. He made himself slow, focus. Cutting the memory off beyond what he required of it, he pushed in again, his other hand gripping the angel's lush thigh. He wanted to imprint _this_ moment, record it over the home movies of his previous life. The finger-dents he was making in his mate's perfect skin, the pinkness around the crescents of his nails.

He hated using saliva for this, the sound and feel of spitting. But Crowley hadn't thought this far ahead, had never expected to be in this position here, under the lilacs and the voyeur moon. He pushed again, slipping in to the knuckles, into heat and grip and shivering. The demon's pupils dilating fully in response to his angel's plaintive moans.

Aziraphale's elbows crushed the moss under him, stifling a whine of want. Being gently fingered felt nice, it felt lovely, it wasn't enough. He couldn't keep completely still, nor entirely silent, but it was all he could do not to demand gratification, and he shoved his face into his arms to stifle a wail when Crowley's fingers scissored and tugged him apart. It was good, so good, because they needed it to be.

Feeling those long digits slide out, Aziraphale knew he needed to act. It was the only time, really, that they could do this. His voice came out a fumbling breath, “ Hh, mf, Crowley, le- let me in. Link to me.”  
  
There was a warm hand placed just so at the small of his back, and the angel could feel the way between them unfolding through Crowley's touch, radiating along his spine, expanding, and enveloping him... Oh. And suddenly they...  
  
_They._ Shuddering hips, the slide of hardness, the slick-hot inside.  
  
The backwards roll of a pelvis, _deeper, fuller_. A burn of friction, a frisson of nerve endings, the nudge of firmness deep within, satisfying an ancient want. Movement, the ground swayed beneath them, breaths caught, a hiss and a moan. Bodies turned and twisted toward themselves, legs over hips, knees in the dirt.  
  
The grip of a hand where bodies were not joined, stroking and thrusting to the same beat. Every sensation doubled, sent back and forth like a light caught between two mirrors. A mosaic creature that whined, pleaded, churned up the ground until their skin was smudged all over with soil.

A cry, a back that arched and writhed. Shuddering and sweating as thighs were spread wider, rutted harder, the nails of some hand turning and scraping across skin that would not quite break. Teeth, were they sharp or straight? Tongues, one forked. Nipples, hard and sensitive, and so much skin. A country of flesh, a world.  
  
There was a strong, broad hand on the back of a neck, pulling mouth against mouth, tasting (menthol, tea and strawberries.) There was the ache of a back bent near double to take the ferocity of their coupling, the frantic shove-pull of a cock driving into a wanting passage, another cock jerking into a hand, fingers and mouths.

And so many sensations, conflicting, echoing, interacting – A wash of tactile stimulation bordering on overload, almost painful, pressing on the limitations of the human body like a bruise. _Oh, Oh!_ And then it _was_ too much, it had rapidly gone from a bearable aching tension to a rushing overflow of nerve impulses, a cascade of chemicals and electricity and –

_They_ were going to come, to explode, maybe literally. Hopefully figuratively. Round thighs quivered against lean, and they began to vibrate apart, regress into their own spaces at the growing urgency of climax. Crowley could still feel the echo of his own pistoning thrusts into the angel's body, the sacred grip of his hand around Aziraphale's weeping, wet prick, as his body began to flood with a sensation of lightness.  
  
Aziraphale sobbed, he couldn't hold, couldn't even think about it. He knew nothing but the gap between his body and Crowley's, the slide of the demons' sinful fist. “F-fu-uck!” The heat built and burst, holy fire lancing through him, lighting up his brain, spilling forth like an oblation upon the soil. He knew Crowley matched him, moment for moment, the demon clutching, curled and shuddering.  
  
It felt like being swallowed up and washed clean, the way Aziraphale's completion took Crowley with it, soaked him, dragged him down into its depths; like being shattered, scattered, collected on beaches and reassembled. He could make no sound as his narrow body shook and spasmed, pumping demonic issue into the angel's holy form. A sacrilege to balance an offering.

There were two beings under the lilacs again, catching the breath they didn't require but enjoyed having, laying naked in a mess of disturbed earth and discarded clothes. Crowley pushed himself up, carefully, and rolled over onto his back.

Quiet, eyes unfocused at the night sky, until one by one, the stars resolved.  
  
Aziraphale breathed, a hand at his throat, the other curled into the open cup of Crowley's palm. “That was … more than I expected.”  
  
“...Yeah.”

The angel's mouth tugged downward into an expression of appraisal, consideration. “Can't complain, though. That was wonderful. Just... Well. I knew it would be perfect.”

“Mmnh.” Crowley wasn't sure he agreed. There was a sort of perfection, he supposed, but it was much like entropy, the culmination of elements. He relaxed into the soft ground and gazed upward, letting his heart slow.  
  
Aziraphale breathed quietly, drifting in near-silence, until a distant nightjar decided the quiet wouldn't do, and started up a low, trilling call. The night smelled good. Not only flowers, but the oxygen-rich night exhalations of green, growing things, and it felt nice to lay there, studying the stars and feeling the air's caress.  
  
Crowley interrupted by asking, “Did you know you could rewrite history, angel?”

The angel sat up, brows furrowing, “I can? How? Did I?”

Another low hum. “Well, it's too soon to say, really. But I think you – we – might have just rewritten _my_ history, at least.”  
  
Sitting up, brushing soil from his elbows, Aziraphale asked, “Is that good?”

“Love, it would be _perfect_.”

They remained there a while, as content and naked as the first humans, until the moon no longer peeped at them through the low branches above. They took their time finding their clothes in the dark, getting dressed. Aziraphale couldn't find his left shoe, or the bag he'd brought with him, and in a moment of forgetfulness gestured to summon a small sphere of light.

He was actually surprised when it worked. “Hold on a tick, I thought this was neutral ground.”  
  
Crowley grinned, tying the draw on his linen slacks, “No, that is neutral ground.” Indicating a section of old wooden fence poking through the lilacs. They'd had passed it in the dark, and made a nest in the grass hardly ten feet from it. Aziraphale's satchel leaned against one of its posts, and he honestly had no idea how it got there.

“I don't think your suggestion would have worked if we'd stayed within the grounds.”  
  
“Oh, clever boy.” Aziraphale smiled, lacing his wayward shoe.

After a momentary detour to the back stoop of the temple, where Crowley had left a pair of soft sandals (the road beyond the monastery wasn't as pleasant to walk on without them,) They continued on toward, as Crowley liked to describe it 'That twee abomination of a hotel', which of course Aziraphale had adored.

On the way, the demon asked, “Do you think we've ruined it?”

A pause in step, a sidelong glance, “Ruined?”

“Like eating dessert before dinner. Will I be able to enjoy not-that, after having had _that_?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale mulled it over, resuming his pace, “Ah. Mm. Well, I can confidently say that I'll still be able to enjoy 'not that', and while 'that' was just exquisite, a steady diet of it would be very tiring.”

Crowley clasped his hands behind his back as he ambled along the moonlit road into Woking, “Guess we'll see, mmnh?”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no beta! Feedback and critique is very very appreciated. I'm driving blind when it comes to 'romance'.  
-  
So some notes on characterization and their relationship:
> 
> This story takes place after 'The Last Green Days of Eden'. And there is background in that fic that would help clarify this one.  
The characters have been a couple for nearly two years here, and their relationship has been healthier, more like it is in the book.  
They've already had a lot of the arguments and dithering and denial that would have been typical at the onset. and now they're simply taking their intimacy somewhere new. Two years isn't that much time, and there's still plenty between them that needs to be unboxed. This is just one thing.
> 
> I preferred their relationship in the book: A slightly dominant and protective Aziraphale, a more confident and straightforward Crowley. And their more comfortable interactions with each other. So while I let them have the past presented in the series, I kept their attitudes toward each other tilted toward the novel, landing them as best I could in between.  
-  
The circle where they start out is in the Tibetan Peace Garden on St. George's Rd, South Bank, London.  
-  
While I've been working on this, a set of lyrics from Bob Dylan's 'All Along The Watchtower' has been haunting me.
> 
> 'But you and I, we've been through that  
And this is not our fate  
So let us not talk falsely now  
The hour is getting late'
> 
> Find me at Penemues-Quill on Tumblr  
I'm very friendly.


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